


Light of My Life (Bane of my Existence)

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Banned Together Fills [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Ableism, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Colorblind Steve Rogers, Disability, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Non-Serum Steve Rogers, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Domestic Violence, Piercings, Protective Natasha Romanov, Rich Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Feels, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Stubborn Steve Rogers, Tattoos, mentions of prescription drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:55:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 57,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29099883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: James is home in the Hamptons now that his father, the American Ambassador to Russia, has finished his tenure overseas. There's still work to do in the nation's capital, but there's a particularly inviting coffee shop that James is finding himself vising more and more often. Maybe the guy in charge has something to do with that.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Banned Together Fills [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825168
Comments: 62
Kudos: 121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Accurate Depictions of Ableism square for Banned Together Bingo 2020. 
> 
> My disclaimers are as follows: I don't know medicine, politics, the Hamptons or how to run a coffee shop. This is an all-in-good-fun AU so please treat it as such.
> 
> The attempted assault in this fic is not graphic - one character summarises the attempt in conversation years after the fact.

“Who’s the kid in the café?”

They’re standing on the promenade, just about where sand meets carefully-manicured grass, path and flowers, with most of the boardwalk behind them, and all of the restaurants and cafés have tables and parasols out in front. Most of the crowd hasn’t changed, of course - it’s still the rich and privileged, but the sun’s high and the wind’s low today, so at least everyone’s in a good mood. Advantage to a place in the Hamptons - most of the kids are too stuck up or spoiled to run around screaming. They’re either busy on their StarkPhones, _Mom_ , or they’re like not getting their shoes dirty, ew. James is always a little disturbed by the number of eight year olds in bikinis learning to sunbathe instead of building sandcastles come summer, or sipping grape juice from stemmed glasses instead of getting covered in icecream, but it’s none of his business. Such is the nature of the Hamptons. 

Natalia looks over in the direction James is talking about, a café without a name on the outside - the actual sign has nothing but a single white star that glows bright in the shade of the building - and she arches one perfect brow, perfect as ever, perfect as always. 

“The _kid owns_ the café,” she answers. “And don’t let him hear you call him a kid, he’s only a year younger than you.”

“Than m-!?” James says, just about read to swallow his tongue. “He’s a year younger than _I_ am?”

He looks back over his shoulder at the ki- the guy serving a customer at the counter. Short, skinny, a nose that kind of outweighs his face and a mouth that looks like he’s got a fat lip. He’s got glasses just about half the size of his entire skull and that’s about all Bucky can make out from here. 

“Be nice, he’s sweet,” Natalia says, and Bucky narrows his eyes in that direction.

“How’s his coffee?”

“His coffee’s great,” Natalia answers. “Don’t go getting any ideas and maybe you can end up as a friendly regular.”

“What?” James laughs, and looks at her, but she’s not laughing.

“He’s a good guy, James, don’t go getting any ideas.”

James turns, frowns at her. It’s too late - he always has _plenty_ of ideas, and most of them are ideas he’d never repeat to anyone. Unless, y’know. He had the opportunity to put those ideas into practice. But he gets her point.

“You make me sound like some kind of heartbreaker, Natalia, how long have you known me?”

“I knew you in college and you were a heartbreaker then,” she says. 

“Only heart got broken was mine,” he says, “Natalia my love, my darling-”

She shoves him hard enough to unbalance him, just to make him smile, and she nods over at the café.

“If you’re going,” she says, “ _if_ , I’ll take a doubleshot zebra mocaccino with whip and a brandysnap bar. I know how much it costs, I’ll Venmo you.”

“Natalia,” he says, “come on-”

But all she does is turn around and look at him, just _looks_ , and he concedes. He always did, of course, and he knows it’s her control issues, but she won’t even let him buy her a coffee, even after he’s known her so long. He rolls his eyes and heaves himself off the wall he’s been leaning on and starts to amble on over to the..big…white star place. Because he’s not actually going to fight it - she’s got her reasons and he respects them. 

The quickest way over to the White Star place is across the little peninsula of sand that encroaches on the boardwalk, and he takes three good steps and then two unsteady ones on the sand before he hits wooden ground. 

“Doubleshot zebra mochaccino with whip and a brandysnap bar, doubleshot zebra mochaccino with whip and a brandysnap bar…”

The big, mostly-glass door to the White Star place is open, and James can see through the huge plate glass window that the back windows are open too. There’s a little place in back for seating as well as the parasols out front - smart considering the front stuff’s in total shade now the sun’s going down - and there’s only the one guy behind the counter. There’s no name on the window or anywhere James can see, though there is a number ‘45’ in gold on glass of the door, with opening hours in gold beneath it, and the guy behind the bar looks…a lot different now James is closer. Damn, a _lot_ different, James thought he was cute from a distance but now?

He’s got a face that’s too big for his head, mostly, and he’s hunched over the counter, but the thing about it is that his number’s pretty fuckin’ high from what James can see - gone are the days of “baby you’re a ten” but the thought crosses his mind. Like he’s at least an eight, despite that nose. God, wow - big eyes, long lashes, beak like a toucan and a mouth like…well, it’s been a long time since James saw a mouth like _that_ on a guy. It all looks like it shouldn’t work together but it really, _really does_ , damn, he’s really cute.

Barista’s wiping his hands on a rag when James comes in, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms and tattoos peeking out from under them, engraved bracelet around his wrist. He’s got a face that really suits him, now that James can see it, eyes that are pretty big. He looks young. James wouldn’t have put him at twenty-six if he hadn’t known, he’d’ve said maybe nineteen at best. The glasses are thick-framed and…maybe fake? James isn’t sure. There’s airy music playing and a phone in the dock behind the bar, so probably Spotify, on this guy’s favorites, and there’s a pleasant breeze coming through from all the open doors.

“What can I get you?” Barista asks after nod of acknowledgement.

And _damn,_ James likes to think he’s got a little self-control but the guy’s voice is-

How does he get a voice like that in a body like _that?_

He sounds like a ‘let me get that for you’ kind of guy, slow and smooth, fireside sex on a sheepskin rug, stepping up behind you to trap you against the counter, a foot taller than you with your whole body pinned up against the wall and your legs wrapped around his waist.

This guy sounds like The Big Spoon. 

But he looks like a fuckin’…small. Spoon. If he were a spoon. In fact, if he were a spoon, he’d be one of those little old English jam spoons that-

He’s tiny. 

The dude’s tiny. 

He dresses like a hipster, that James has no trouble seeing. Skinny black pants, black suspenders, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He’s dirty blond under his gray beanie, and he’s got black tunnels, a black nose stud, a black labret stud and a couple of little bits of ink that peek out from his shirt. Something pink in the middle of his chest, Brooklyn written across the knuckles of his fingers, a little black star on each of his thumbs, maybe something behind his ear, something on the side of his throat. There might be some ink on his arms too, but the shirt is a heavy type of fabric and James can’t see through it. He does his best not to be disappointed.

“Hi!” James says, flashing his best on-the-circuit grin - cute and charming is his go-to, he knows how to lay it on thick.

The guy looks at him for a second. 

“Hmmm,” James continues. “Can I get a…uh. Wait, sorry, I’m…” he laughs, self-deprecating. “Got no manners, sorry - could I please have-” and that works, he sees Barista’s eyebrow raise. What he can’t see anywhere is a name badge “-a doubleshot zebra mocacchino with whip to go, and a brandysnap bar?”

The guy takes a breath, that eyebrow still raised except now it kinda looks a little unimpressed, and he picks up a paper cup. James realizes that he forgot to ask what size Nat wanted.

“And for you?” Barista says, and James frowns.

“How d’you know that’s not for me?” James asks, leaning heavily on the bar with as much of a glint in his eye as he can muster, and Barista uncaps his sharpie with his nice, white teeth, holds the lid there and speaks, his very-nice-actually lips forming the words with barely any problem.

“Firstly, there’s only one person comes in here asks for a zebra mochaccino. Everybody else asks for a mochaccino with a pump of white, ‘cause that’s how it is on the board,” and he jabs a thumb over his shoulder to the chalkboard without looking away from the cup he’s writing on. “Second, if you were standing with Nat for that long, it means you weren’t trying to pick her up. If you weren’t trying to pick her up then you’re a friend, so you know what I mean when I tell you her hair’s visible from space, which is the long way ‘round’a tellin’ you I saw you standing with Nat, so the drink is hers, so what can I get you?”

And James is stumped. Barista’s got a very pretty mouth, and that nose is growing on James. But James didn’t actually think of anything. He…also didn’t realize he wanted anything but he actually does. 

“I didn’t think of anything,” he says, trying a smile, and Barista shakes his head, holds up his sharpie hand. 

“It’s fine,” he says, recapping the pen without putting down the lid _or_ drawing all over his face, impressive. “I’ll do this, you think about it.”

For a moment, James has a moment where his brain skips - first his brain says “Russian Café” then thinks “no wait this is America” and then tries to read the scrawly black handwriting as ‘HATANNR’ before everything snaps back and he recognizes Natalia in the native Russian. Huh.

There are signs all over the place - “No limit on card,” “Venmo, PayPal, ApplePay, StarkCheck, all accepted,” “Induction Loop Available,” “Welcome to consume own food on premises - pls put sth in the charity, thx,” But no name tag. Little wooden stands with chalkboards talking about the baked goods (gluten free, dairy free, allergen compliant - ask for info!) or daily specials (Regular Mint Choc Chipaccino and vanilla cream icecream $6.00 excl tax), a few small baskets with cereal bars and small bags of chips, but no name tag.

A tiny little rainbow rectangle on the side of the register. 

But no name tag. 

The hiss of the milk steaming pulls him back, and he scans the board fast. There are teas, lattes, ‘ccinos, a ton of things, but he doesn’t know what he wants besides something caramel. Oh, salted caramel?

Barista brings him the drink without a lid, and gives him a lid with it, puts the brandysnap bar (which is like…an oat bar wrapped in brandysnap and dipped in chocolate? Okay) in a clear wrapper. 

“Didn’t wanna crush her whip,” Barista explains, pointing to the lid.

And it’s only as he gets back that James realizes there must be a step behind the counter, because he goes from James’ shoulder height to being just a little under eye-level in one step and, holy cow, he guy is _tiny._

“You decide what you want?” Barista asks, and Bucky considers ‘your number.’ 

Somehow he’s beginning to think it wouldn’t go over well.

“What do you have that’s caramel?” he asks, trying for eye contact and a warm smile.

“I have a blackboard with everything on it,” Barista answers. “But you’re new here, I’ll make an exce-”

“I’m not new here,” James chuckles, but he realizes too late that it was a joke, not a deduction.

The guy’s smile evaporates. He has a very powerful neutral expression, James thinks.

“As you’re new to my café,” he says, the words no tighter than they were a second ago but somehow a whole lot less friendly, “I’ll make an exception for you. I can make anything caramel, it’s just a syrup. So,” and then he uncaps his sharpie again, “pick your favorite coffee, tell me your favorite milk and what size you want, and I’ll make you something.”

“Sorry,” James says, glancing down as he tongues his molars, he remembers how to do coy. “Could I have a caramel latte? Regular with whole milk, please, do you have salted caramel?”

Barista frowns.

“I beg your pardon?” he says. 

James frowns. What? Maybe he shouldn’t have asked - he glances at the board but doesn’t see it written anywhere in the split-second he can see it. Barista looks like he might be getting annoyed and, while James is sure annoyed would be a hell of a cute look on him, he doesn’t want Barista to get pissed, that would ruin his chances completely.

“Hard of hearing at your age?” he says instead, teasing, and the guy goes very still.

“And seein’,” he says, voice low and resonant, “walkin’ some days, too - could you repeat what you said into my _good_ ear?”

And he turns his head. 

He has a hearing aid, Jesus Christ.

“I,” James says, his professional-family-façade dropped instantly. “Sorry. I didn’t know.”

James hopes he hasn’t turned puce. He never even friggin’ _noticed_ the hearing aid. And then, after a few long seconds, James realizes he hasn’t even repeated what he said.

“Jesus, sorry, uh, s-salted caramel?” James asks, and Barista nods. “Sorry.”

Now Barista definitely doesn’t look pleased.

“Thats fine,” he says instead. “Whip?”

“Uh,” James says. “Yeah, sure, please. Why not?” and he tries to muster half a smile, be a little self deprecating again but, if his audience was tough _before_...

James is usually better at talking to people than this - he has to be. But he finds that he’s feeling a little overwhelmed when the guy goes to make his coffee. It’s that he’s not getting a read on the guy, James realizes - he can’t tell what the guy’s thinking. He _thinks_ he’s friendly, thinks he _was_ friendly, but he certainly didn’t appreciate the charm. And James doesn’t know anything for sure. 

“Bits?” the guy says, and James…uh…what? “Sprinkles? Pieces on your whip?”

“Yeah!” James says, and then winces at how loud he is. “Please.”

Barista nods. And then there’s just airy music and silence besides - it’s excruciating. 

“So, do you live around here?” James asks, because maybe he can start a conversation. 

The guy looks at him slowly. James can’t tell if it’s ‘I’m considering my answer’ or ‘if I count to ten I’m sure I’ll have the patience for this’ and it’s making the back of his neck itch.

“I live here,” he says, holding James’ gaze.

“Nice,” James says, an easy answer - he can work with that. “Whereabouts?”

The guy turns full on to face him.

“I live,” he says, and points at the ceiling. _“Here.”_

So not a trust fund kid, or- wait, maybe his parents invested in the coffee place and he’s- Maybe his parents kicked him _out_ , there’s always-

“How long you been here for?” he asks, and Barista’s lower lids tighten just a little.

Maybe it’s a calculating look, maybe it’s disdain. It looks like the former but James doesn’t know this guy. He turns away and goes back to making James’ coffee.

“Seven years this October,” he says.

God, James forgets sometimes how long they were away.

“That’s a long time,” James says, instead of voicing that thought. “Was it like a, did you have a project or you just….love coffee?”

The guy draws a long, slow breath. James can see the movement of his body even under the tent of a button-down.

“Dropped out of college,” he says, and then reaches for the whip. “Bills to pay.” He grabs the sprinkles, shakes it _shika-shika_ over James’ coffee, and then brings it back to put it on the counter. 

He puts a lid on the counter with it. 

“So you picked a coffee place?” James says, feeling a little more sure of himself now there’s some semblance of an actual interaction. 

If he can get the guy talking about his interests, maybe he can figure out where to take him on a date. 

Barista just looks at him for a long few moments. Then he says, 

“Is there anything else I can get for you today?”

“Aw come on,” James says, leaning a little closer to put himself a little more on the guy’s eye-level, “look, we got off on the wrong foot.” 

Barista raises one incredibly unimpressed eyebrow - that’s a skill for sure.

“We didn’t get off on any feet, you’re a customer in my establishment,” he says a moment later. “Is there anything else I can get for you today?”

And that stings a little, if he’s honest. James is used to being charming and the life of the party and shit like that, he’s used to people liking him immediately. This guy doesn’t like him, and the worst part is he can’t blame him for it either. 

“There’s nothing else you can get for me, thank you,” James says, looking at the counter, “but I’m sorry for... Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Your total’s fifteen dollars and sixteen cents,” he says, God, that’s what you get for living in the Hamptons. “You can pay by card.”

“Yeah,” James says, and he produces it. “It’s a nice place you’ve got here.”

“Thanks,” the guy says. 

“What’s this place called?” he asks, a last-ditch effort, and the guy cocks his head towards the door.

“What’s the sign?”

“Uh,” James says. “White Star?”

The Barista just bobs his eyebrows, lips pressed together in the kind of smile you give a stranger on the sidewalk. 

James returns it with a nice smile of his own - the one he rolls out at functions when he can’t remember somebody’s name.

“Thanks,” he says.

“Have a nice day now,” Barista says without any further expression on his own face, and James waits a second or two in case the guy changes his mind. 

He doesn’t seem like he’s going to, and so James gives him a one-shouldered shrugs, turns around and walks away. He gives the barista the old over-the-shoulder be-seeing-you eyes when he gets to the door, but Barista’s not even looking at him, hunched over the counter cleaning some utensils or something.

Nat’s watching when he comes back, leaning with her back against the wall, her elbows back and on top of the stone.

“So?” she says, and he shakes his head.

“He didn’t seem very friendly,” he says, and she rolls her eyes and thanks him in Russian for the coffee as she takes it. 

“What did you do?” she says, and then she takes a sip.

“I mean aside from not getting the jokes failing with literally every trick in the book, I asked if he was hard of hearing-”

“Bozhe moy!” she says, smile dropping away. “James!”

“I know!” he says, for God’s sake, he felt admonished enough in the café, he doesn’t need it from her too. “I know, that’s on me, that was my fault.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, squinting in the late afternoon sun. “Did he cuss you out?”

“No,” James says. “He didn’t need to. Nothing I did worked - I tried the smile, I tried jokes, I tried making me the punchline-”

“James,” she says, frowning as she screws up her mouth.

“What?” he says. “It’s what I’m best at.”

“Yeah, sure, look how well it worked on _him.”_

“Yeah well,” he answers. 

“Look, don’t take it too hard,” she says. “So he’s not into the Gala Routine, you did better than some people anyway. What’d he say?”

“In general?” James asks, and takes a sip of his own coffee. “Fuck, that’s good,” because it is, _damn,_ there’s _just_ the right amount of salt, the caramel comes through without cloying, the coffee is _amazing_ , seriously - rich and deep and smoky - and nothing makes a foam like whole milk, damn, James has been drinking skim since they got back. “Fuck that’s _so good_.”

He takes another sip, lets it wash over his palate and coat his tongue and regrets the fact that he can never go back to White Star and get another one. 

“What’d he say, James?” she says once he’s over his first sip, and he shakes his head.

“He said ‘have a nice day now.’” 

“Ouch,” she says. 

“Yeah,” James says. “Any idea whether that means I’m banned from the place?”

Nat breathes in deeply through her nose and takes another sip.

“Oh look,” she says. “You can ask him yourself.” 

James goes hot and cold all over, both at the same time and both instantly, and then almost doesn’t dare ask.

“What,” he says, and he can hear how flat his voice is. “What?”

She nods in the direction of the café.

“Presumably he’s got my brandysnap bar,” she says, and James squeezes his eyes shut for a second.

“Fuck.”

He turns around and tries to smile and, yep, there’s Barista, currently wobbling across the sand peninsula on very, _very_ thin legs - he looks ill, to be frank - and tattered converse-looking shoes, with Nat’s brandysnap bar in his hand. 

“Hey,” Nat says, and Barista is squinting.

He’s also dressed differently - his collar’s popped and he’s got on fingerless gloves, which he did not have on in the café. 

“Yeah,” he says, and hands it over.

“Thanks,” she says, and he nods, turns right back around and starts walking away again. “You’re not wearing your hat.”

“I’m wearing _a_ hat,” he answers gruffly.

“The coffee’s amazing!” James says, raising his voice a little as the Barista walks away because maybe he’s still got a chance.

“That’s why I own a café,” Barista answers, and trudges back to White Star. 

“So,” Nat says, as soon as he’s back inside. 

He must have been well out of earshot before then, but she likes to be cautious.

“What do you think?”

“I know literally nothing, Nat,” he says. “I don’t even know the name of the place!”

“He’ll come around,” she says. “But his story’s his story to tell.”

James shrugs it off. Yeah, that’s fine - he’s not about to try and get her to tell him the guy’s business, that’s up to him. 

“You think _he’ll_ come around to _me?”_ he asks, skeptical, and she nods.

“Oh?” she says, delighted. _“James!”_

“Yeah, yeah, knock it off. Tell me if you think I got a shot.”

“At friends?” she says. “Yeah? Probably?”

“That’s all I’m getting? No ‘yes he’s gay,’ no ‘you’re not his type,’ nothing?”

“Tell a perfect stranger his whole history just because you think he’s attractive? No. No nothing. Just be nice to him and he’ll come around.”

“Mhm, you’re sure about it, are you?” he answers.

Nat laughs and, okay, they were never going to work out, the two of them. But there’s still times like this, when she throws her head back and laughs - be it Hampton sunshine or Moscow snow - when he smiles at the memory of what they were and allows himself to miss it just a little. 

“Because you’re a good guy when you’re being genuine, Bucky,” she says, the old nickname, “and he likes good guys.”

It’s about half an hour later, James says,

“So what’s his name?”

And Natasha laughs, slaps the wall with one open palm.

“Oh wow, you really _pissed_ him off,” she says, and then she fixes him with those eyes of hers. “Try him tomorrow, maybe he’ll tell you. For now, I’ve got an interview, so I’ll see you around.”

James covers his face with his hands and leans on the wall again.

“Uughhhhh,” he says.

***

“Hi,” James says as he walks in, and Barista spares him a glance.

He’s wearing the exact same thing he was wearing yesterday - sort of, the collar’s different, the waistband on the jeans has changed, so it’s more like he’s got a bunch of the same clothes probably - and he spares James a glance as he comes in.

“What can I get you?” he says, disinterested but not unkind as he picks up a paper cup and uncaps his sharpie, and James clears his throat.

“Ooh, same as yesterday?” he says.

Barista waits, pen poised. James clears his throat. Okay, the place was like basically empty yesterday but if that’s how he wants to play it.

“A salted caramel latte with whole milk, please,” he says. “A big one.”

“Large or extra large?” Barista asks, and James doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh, extra, please,” he says, trying to make his tone of voice say ‘of course,’ because people like to pretend flattery doesn’t get you anywhere but James knows you’ve just got to apply it right. 

“Drink in or take out?” Barista asks.

“To go today, I think,” he says. “Please.”

He doesn’t have anywhere to be but he wants to know what Barista thinks of his choice.

Barista just nods, steps down off his ledge, and goes to make James’ coffee. James peruses the chalkboards - The Usuals, for things like a latte, a cappuccino, a macchiato, Americano, flat white, hot chocolate, all the regulars. There’s Flavored Beverages with all the syrup options, and rules for mixing them, or mixing drinks. Cold and Iced, with everything Barista will do cold, and then Specials, with mostly stuff that James hasn’t seen on regular menus often if at all. There’s the Canela Dulce which, if James’ rudimentary Spanish is anything to go by, will probably be a cinnamon dolce dupe, a butterbeer set which is butterscotch and rum flavor, some kind of..it says Vulcan? Oh mint and fennel, apparently? That’s a tea, there’s a blueberry star wars milkshake, bramblebush frappucino with blackberries and blackcurrant, and lavender hot chocolate, caramelized white hot chocolate, cinnamon roll anything you like, damn - James and his sweet tooth, _and_ his waistline, are going to have to be careful. 

“Bits?” Barista says, and James nods.

“Yeah, please, go ham,” and Barista says,

“Tschuh,” in one fast syllable. 

It takes James a second to realize it’s a laugh - one point to James!

When Barista brings him his coffee, James smiles.

“Thanks,” he says. “Been waitin’ for another one since yesterday.”

“I’m open until seven,” Barista answers, dry as a bone.

“Yeah but suits are harder to let out then they are to take in,” James says.

“Especially when they cost as much as your suits,” Barista says, and James feels the sting in that one. 

“Ouch, man,” he says. “What was that for?” 

“That hard-of-hearing thing,” Barista answers, whip fast. “Now we’re even.”

James sticks his tongue in his cheek for a second, but then he nods. 

“A’right,” he says, and then he holds out a hand. “I’m James.”

Barista’s eyebrows go up but he reaches over to shake. 

His skin feels weird and it’s then that James notices he’s wearing clear plastic gloves. Or. Like latex or something. 

“Nat’s diplomat friend,” he says. “I’ve heard about you.”

“Oh,” James answers, because all of the standard responses are on his tongue in an instant. _Only good things, I hope,_ and _oh my reputation precedes me?_ and every other simpering platitude politicians have been drooling out at introductions since time immemorial. “Well. You have me at a disadvantage.”

“Mhm,” Barista says. “Enjoy your drink.”

Okay, scratch today then, he guesses? Instead he tries again for a compliment. 

“Oh yeah, I’m gonna,” he says, and takes a huge, _apparently scalding hot_ mouthful. “Mghhu,” and Barista just looks at him.

“Careful, it’s hot,” he says eventually, and James could kill him honestly, cute as he is.

“Mhh,” he says with a nod instead, and takes his drink out of the café.

Damn. This is one tough cookie.

***

The thing is, it takes a week for James to become a regular, and it turns out that ‘a regular’ means that, when he walks in, Cute Barista uncaps a pen and holds an extra large paper cup in his hand and says,

“Changes?”

And James says some variation on, 

“No thanks,” and then Barista gets to work. 

It’s a week to the day that James tries again with something that isn’t a smile or a thank you, while Barista’s back is turned.

“Busy today?” he says, and Barista doesn’t turn to face him because he’s busy making James’ drink.

“Nope,” Barista answers. “There’s barely anyone in town outside the holidays, and today is a Tuesday. It’s just about the least busy time of the week - you?”

“Oh,” James says, shaking his head. He wasn’t actually expecting a conversation. “No, it’s….Uh. Mostly I’m just hanging around this week.”

“No job, huh,” Barista says, and James takes a deep breath.

“I work for my Dad-” he says.

“The Ex Russian Ambassador,” Barista answers.

James fights the urge to grit his teeth. 

“-and he’s currently in Washington,” he finishes instead.

“Ahh, so you’re on vacation,” Barista says, and James winces.

“I’m at a loss,” he says. “So Nat’s been showing me around, you know? I mean, not much has changed.”

And then a miracle happens.

“How long you been outta town for?” Barista asks - like actually asks James a question - and James is so surprised it takes him a second to answer. 

“Twelve years or so,” he says, and Barista nods.

“So you were, what…?”

“Fifteen,” James says, but Barista doesn’t know James knows their age difference, so now James has another piece of information.

“So you’re a year older than me,” Barista says. “How ‘bout that.”

Okay so knowing how old Barista is is still a win, even if Barista told him the information himself instead of letting James feel like a sneaky bastard.

“How’d you wind up working here?” James asks. “I mean, you know. Owning the place - you buy it?”

He makes that laugh noise again.

“No,” he says. “I worked for Erskine.”

James feels recognition hit him like a brick wall.

“You were a barista for Erskine?”

“And a server,” Barista says. “Yep.”

“How is he?”

And…Oh. 

Oh wow, the..the Barista seems to lose about fifty percent of his personality all at once, his big eyes dimming, that smile leaving his pretty mouth.

“When?” James asks, and Barista smiles sadly.

“Five years ago,” Steve answers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you knew him.”

“Well, I mean,” James shrugs - he finds he is tinged by sadness. Nobody did ice-cream or corn dogs like Erskine, nobody handed them over with a smile and a wink like him. He gave you treats like he was telling you a secret, and he always did a little something extra for the good kids - sprinkles they didn’t ask for, maybe, or a piece of extra batter. It was a large part of his childhood vacations and it’s strange to think that someone who was so joyous and alive in his memory is gone from his life now. “It’s…That’s sad,” he settles on.

Barista nods, shows a little mercy today.

“He was a hell of a good guy,” he says. “Told me to run the place after he retired seven years ago, then left it to me in his will.”

James feels his mouth drop open.

“What?” he says.

“Yep,” Barista answers, and points at him. “That’s about what my face looked like too - left it to me on the proviso that I change the name to something important to me, so that people know it’s my place and not his now, and that I do the same for someone else as he did for me some day, if it ever came to that. So far there’s only me on staff but I’ll pay it forward when I’ve saved a little more.”

“So you picked White Star?” he says, wrinkling his nose, but he hears his own tone of voice when he does and kicks himself internally - Barista literally just told him it was something important to him.

Barista’s mouth twists.

“Sorry,” James says. “That was insensitive. Just…I had no idea. How’d you come up with the name?”

“It’s a family thing,” Barista answers, all closed off again and, okay, no more questions about that, James can take a hint. 

“How’d you end up working for him though anyway, you said you have bills to pay?”

Barista narrows his eyes, cocks his head a little.

“I mean,” James answers, and then he realizes that’s not the kind of question you ask people you don’t. “Uh.”

“You mean people who live in the Hamptons can usually pay their bills without a problem,” Barista nods, but he doesn’t seem upset by the assumption. “Which, from what I’ve seen is true.”

He turns away and starts making another drink. 

“I was somebody’s assistant,” he says. “A little like your father. I lived in with them while they went from here to DC and back.” He shrugs. “I didn’t get on with the son, we had a disagreement, and I’d had to take too much time off sick so they felt it was a no-brainer. And I’d taken the job with the intention of getting experience, so that meant I was out on my ass with no reference.”

“Couldn’t go home?” James asks, and it’s then that Barista turns to look at him, eyes tight again as he leans against the work surface, like he’s figuring something out. 

“No-one left,” he says eventually. “Lost the last of my family. Got the job through a friend so I sold the car, sold the place, and left.”

James feels his mouth come unglued just about the time he puts everything together.

“Medical bills,” he breathes.

Barista shuts his jaw with a click and clenches his teeth, lifts his chin, like he’s daring James to say something about it.

“I’m sorry,” James says instead, and Barista takes a long, slow breath, and nods. 

Then he turns back to make the rest of the drink.

James can’t think of a single thing to say in the face of that, and he stands there in silence until Barista’s finished on the drink. Then Barista takes a sip, oh. He smiles tightly, sad. 

“Anyway,” he says. “Haven’t you got more important things to be doing?”

And James thinks about it.

It’s been a week, and he’s done the same thing every day - come in, turned on the charm, left disappointed. Barista gets cuter every day, it really isn’t fair - especially when he’s annoyed, especially when he’s tired, especially when he’s (okay, James has a problem, he can admit it) but he tries something else, just to try it. Just to see. 

He could say,

_“Than drinking your delicious coffee? I don’t think so.”_

He could say,

_“A choice between being out there alone or being in here with you?”_

But instead, he says,

“Nope. I got nothing to do all day until my dad makes a decision, and I like your coffee.”

It’s a half-truth - James’ schedule is packed but only when his dad isn’t in an all-day meeting, like today. Barista nods slowly.

“Alright,” he says, because apparently James gets a pass. “You want your next one to drink in?”

James smiles, it comes on all by itself and he doesn’t even have to try. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Why not?”

Barista nods. 

“Same again?”

“You know?” James says. “I actually…I’d like to try a cinnamon roll latte instead. Could I please have one of those?”

Barista wets his very pink lips with his very pink tongue, and gives James a once-over.

“Sure,” he says, and then he extends one clear-gloved hand.

James blinks, then goes to take it?

“Steve,” Barista says, and James hopes his face doesn’t show the level of pleased excitement that fills his chest as he shakes Barita’s - _Steve’s_ hand! “Welcome to Polaris.”

Oh _damn_!

James takes a second or two to tamp down his excitement, and then grins.

“Pleasure’s all mine,” he says.

Steve pulls a face.

“Don’t make me regret my decision,” he says, and James laughs.

***

“Hey, I tell you what,” Steve says three days later. “If you’re comin’ over the path, I can see you - wave if you want the caramel, or throw me one of these for a cinnamon roll latte,” and then, with his right hand, he makes a ‘C’ sort of shape, then taps his thumb with his index and middle fingers, then uses those two fingers to jab the air in front of him twice.

James cocks his head.

“Sign?” he says.

“Mhm,” Steve says, “give it a go.”

James shakes his head.

“Show me again, but slower,” he says. “Pretend I’m an idiot.”

“I’m not sure my imagination will stretch to such lengths,” Steve answers, and James pretends to be offended while Steve shows him again. 

This time he sees a raised pinky on that tap, too, and he copies it after Steve gives it to him a third time.

“Yeah, that’ll do,” Steve says, a few tries of his own later. 

“Wave for caramel, sign-” and he makes the gestures “-for cinnamon.”

“Yep,” Steve says. “Watch your wallet, I’ll be making you an extra large unless you can get in here to stop me first. 

“Or I’ll just have to suffer through the extra large,” James says. “A tragedy.”

Steve makes that little noise again, and James…

James very much enjoys making him laugh.

***

“Bucky,” James says, and Steve looks like he’s about to snort his coffee out of his nose.

 _“What!?”_ he says, and the barely-contained glee is endearing but also, _hey._

“My middle name’s Buchanan,” he answers, and Steve nods.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t put it first, either,” he says, and James gives him a flat look, at which Steve breaks out into chuckles again. “Hoo boy. Family name?”

James rubs the back of his neck with one palm.

“Uh,” he says. “No, it’s-”

“Oh my _God!”_ Steve says. _“You’re named after the president!”_

***

James has been back a month (a whole month back in the states and it still doesn’t really feel like he’s here to stay), when he heads over to Polaris to find that Steve’s not at the counter. If something’s different, James will have missed it - he hasn’t even been in the Hamptons for a good half week, having spent the previous weekend with a friend of the family. Still, he finds that he’s happy to be back and in need of a good coffee that none of the rest-stops could provide, so he waves as he approaches the café, and the sun’s bright enough that all he sees in the plate-glass is his own reflection, but he gets there to find the place empty, all the windows and doors open as usual with it being such a sunny day.

There’s a button on the counter, like an electronic doorbell, and James frowns at it before he looks left and right. The place is empty. _Deserted_ , and he frowns. He can hear voices, children and adults, laughing and talking, so there are customers. They must be out back, where James can’t see. 

He presses the button. 

Nothing happens for about five seconds - he certainly can’t hear anything - but then someone comes in the back in a huge, wide-brimmed straw sun hat and-

“Hey,” Steve says, and James feels his mouth drop open. “Sorry, I was on break. Changes?”

James doesn’t say anything. 

Steve, inked-up, pierced, grumpy-bastard Steve, is taking his enormous wide-brimmed sun-hat off his head as his lenses transition back to transparent, one wired earbud in his ear which he takes out as he gets behind the bar, and shoves into his apron pocket, where the wire was leading. His hair’s somehow untouched - it’s short on the sides, a disconnected undercut coupled with a surprisingly attractive pompadour, and James can see it’s dirty blond now Steve’s not wearing a beanie.

James keeps his own hair tied back but he wonders if he could pull off a similar look. He doubts it - Steve’s got a face that suits it really well, Bucky knows when he’s beaten stylistically.

Steve’s also wearing those fingerless gloves again - they look like they’re made of wool, now James is getting a good look. He figured, in his memory of that split-second glance of Steve when he brought Nat’s brandysnap bar, they were leather. Pleather at the very least. But these are knitted - they’re not unraveling at the ends, either, so they were bought as knitted fingerless gloves. 

Is he cold? In weather like this?

Then he notices the chipped black nail polish and the little black thumb ring - little because Steve’s fingers are long and thin, his hands huge on the ends of his arms. He’s deft with them, too, it’s not the first time James has had that thought. 

“Y’okay?” Steve asks, and he’s frowning when James finally stops looking at Steve’s fingers.

“Yeah,” James says. “You cold?”

“Huh?” Steve says, and then looks down at his hands. “Oh.”

He puts his hat down under the counter, strips off the fingerless gloves and replaces them with his disposable ones. 

“So, cinnamon or caramel?” he asks, and James puts both arms on the counter and squints at the menu.

“Hmm,” he says. “I think maybe I wanna try something else. What do you recommend?”

Steve raises one big, perfect eyebrow over one big, perfect eye, and turns around to look at the board. 

“I like the sound of any of the chocolate bar shit,” he says. “Any of the coff- I like the- Look, what do you actually feel like?”

And he turns back as he says it, planting his big hands on his slim hips. 

God everything about him is cute. 

“That’s a really dangerous question to ask,” James says without thinking, and then he realizes not only what he’s said but to whom he’s said it.

Steve’s pretty mouth opens just a little, and then (maybe James' life is turning around after all) he laughs, quietly, a little color coming up on his cheeks.

“Listen, if you like short and bitter so much, I’ll get you an espresso,” he says, and James’ mind reels - this is his chance, he was raised to be smooth, he can do this, right? 

Steve might let him?

“Definitely a chocolate,” he answers. “I like hot and sweet.”

Steve rolls his eyes.

“Pick one then, Senator,” he says, but he’s smiling.

“Dealer’s choice,” he answers. 

Steve narrows his eyes.

“Any allergies?”

“Nope,” James says. 

Steve nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Take a seat.”

~

He makes James a Toblerone hot chocolate - honey and almond, really - and he makes it with whole milk because he says his customers tell him nothing goes better in hot chocolate than whole. He puts it on the counter and then calls out,

“Dealer’s choice for Senator Barnes?” even though there’s nobody else inside the café.

“What about you?” James says as he comes to collect, and Steve jabs a thumb back at the machine.

“Mine takes a while, I’m soy milk.”

“Oh?” James says. “Lifestyle or necessity?”

“Personal,” Steve answers, and he smiles, but it’s tight-lipped.

“Hey,” James says as he walks off. “Sorry.”

Steve stops, looks back at him. 

“Okay,” he answers.

And James isn't really paying that much attention to his surroundings, honestly - he’s too busy watching Steve - when a woman walks in. It’s not Natalia, but she has that same air about her. Tall, brunette, curvy, and dressed in a halter-something (probably a swimming costume) and a sarong with what looks to be shorts on underneath (which leaves a lot of very creamy skin on display), she smiles with blood-red lips and James' whole life feels like it’s about to change. 

“Barkeep, are you open?” she says - a Brit! - and Steve turns around and then his jaw drops, brow furrowing as he staggers a little.

It’s theatrics but it’s cute, especially when he grabs the counter with one hand and knocks his glasses askew on purpose with the other.

“Damn, Peg,” he says, and then he laughs, hand pressed to his chest as he gives her the once-over. “Y’all know I got a bad heart, you tryin’a kill me?”

James' heart sinks. What, really - her?

Wait did he say a bad heart?

“Oh, what’s the matter darling, too much _va va voom?”_ she says, and Steve leans on the counter - like James did when he was trying to be smooth the first time he came in here.

James isn't quite behind her so he’s got a pretty damned good view of the picture she makes when she’s bent in half - her ass and her thighs make him feel like howling at the moon, and her breasts are so big they’re on the counter. God, he does miss getting his face in a pair, getting his hands on a body like that. Not like that’s an option here though.

“Not enough, Peg, not enough!” Steve says, shaking his head as smiles, broad and self-assured. 

He doesn’t smile at James that way and it’s certainly way more than a _twinge_ of jealousy that James feels when he realizes that.

“You’d like a twirl, would you?” she says, and he props his head up on one hand.

“Would you make a fella the happiest guy in the world?”

And ‘Peg’ laughs - she stands up and lifts her arms and makes a long, slow turn, and even gives James a wink as she does, tongue against one incisor.

She is _gorgeous._

James has got no chance. 

“Who’s the new chap?” she says, and Steve glances at James.

“James,” he says. “Mutual friend of Nat’s.”

“Ahh!” she says, and turns to face him again. 

James gets the almost unshakable feeling, from the look in both their eyes, that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he could persuade them to make him the filling in their sandwich, but if they’re both looking a little predatory, it’s no doubt a look they were directing at each other. James has probably just accidentally got caught in the crossfire.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey yourself,” she answers, and Steve laughs.

“Knock it off , Peg,” he says.

“Aw, can’t a girl have some fun?” she says, and she definitely gives James a once-over back.

“I wouldn’t object,” James says, and she crows.

“Aha!” and spins to face Steve.

Steve’s predatory expression has faded, however, which James notes now he’s looking at Steve again and not just staring straight at Peg. She’s a hell of a woman, and Steve’s looking at her warmly, like they’ve been married forever.

Maybe they _are_ married - Steve doesn’t wear a ring but he also wears vinyl gloves. Maybe it’s a work thing, James knows so little about him. 

“You a newbie?” she says. “Need anyone to show you around?”

“I could stand an official tour guide, if you’re offering,” he says, leaning back in the booth, stretching himself out.

Peg gives him _another_ once-over and bobs her eyebrows.

“I think Angie might object to that, but I’ll bear it in mind.”

James frowns, then looks at Steve.

“Angie?” he says, eyebrows raised in what he hopes is a friendly manner - Steve will tell him, right?

“Much to both our detriments,” Steve says, pointing a finger between James and himself, and then he jabs a thumb at Peg. “Her wife.”

James feels his mouth drop open.

“You’re a lesbian?” he says.

Peg frowns. 

“Come on, darling, have a little tact,” she says, and he doesn’t blush but it’s a close run thing. “Pansexual.”

“Thank goodness,” Steve says. “Otherwise I might’ve developed a complex.”

James is confused, he knows he is. 

“You were together?”

“Three long and wonderful years,” she answers, and then leans back on the counter and gives Steve a wry look over he shoulder.

“James Barnes,” Steve says, “Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter, the best decision I ever made and the worst thing to ever happen to me.”

She turns around instantly and slaps his arm, and he totters backward, laughing.

“Because you left me!” he defends. “I had to watch you leave.”

“Mhh but you loved to watch me go - don’t worry, I remember.”

“You and him?” James says, and he’s made a mistake, he can feel it.

They both look at him in that instant, smiles different somehow - expectant and waiting. 

“Yeah, James, her and me, somethin’ you wanna say about it?”

Oh. 

Oh shit, no wait, he didn’t mean it to sound like that.

And the thing is, James has done the galas, done the events, done the inaugurations and the presentations - he’s been to the parties, he’s been to the afterparties, and his life has been an exercise in saying the right thing at the right time. 

Flirting in the middle of a diplomatic conversation, an innuendo over a glass of wine that costs more than Steve’s rent - James Buchanan Barnes was raised to be a charmer, and he knows just when to shock.

“Actually, yeah,” he says, and just as Steve and Peggy are gearing up to get mad, he says, “I was kinda hopin’ you were gay, Steve.”

Peggy looks like it’s Christmas. 

“O _ho!”_ she says, and looks at Steve, who puts up both hands and angles his body away from her in a blatant display of _‘don’t’_ as she grins at him. _“Were_ you indeed?”

Steve’s gone a little pink over the bridge of his huge nose, but- 

_But!_

He’s _smiling!_

“Yeah, I was asking for a friend,” James answers, but he’s good at people. As soon as he speaks, Steve’s thrown off, and gives him a cautious glance - but James has timed it perfectly. Just as Steve makes eye contact, James says, “the friend is me, you’re fuckin’ cute.”

Steve goes positively puce, and then rubs his face with both palms.

“Jesus Christ, fuckin’ _Irish skin,_ ” he hisses, and James just waits until he’s finished smoothing his apron and reeling around and ignoring Peggy, just watches him until he’s looking back.

Peggy, he can see out the corner of his eye, is looking between them, incredibly amused, but he pays her no mind.

“Yeah, alright, I’m bisexual, but listen,” Steve says, and he holds up a hand - he glances at James and then at Peggy, but sort of double-takes back at James in a way which is both cute and _stupid cute_. “I know you’re into me.”

James just raises both eyebrows and Steve frowns, pats the air with his outstretched hand like he’s tamping down his last sentence to make way for the new one.

“Alright, I knew you were flirting,” he amends. “And I figured you might be into me instead of just treating me like one of your French diplomats, _and, yes_ I’m into you.”

James sits up a little straighter in his booth.

“You are?”

“Yeah, cool it, Bucko,” Steve says. “Firstly, you’re good-lookin’ but you _definitely_ know it,” he’s _good-lookin’_ , Steve thinks _he’s good-lookin’?_ “and you came on _strong_ ,” Steve continues. “Which is fine but like we just said, I had no idea if you meant it or if it was just how you act.”

“I mean it,” James says, and Steve takes a breath in through his nose. “You’re _really_ fuckin’ cute.”

“Yeah, well, that’s great to hear but I like to know a person better than five minutes of hi-how-are-ya once a day for a month, so I’m gonna wanna take it slower than you’re hintin’ at.”

“That’s fine!” James says, a little more loudly than he intends but hey! “Really? That’s fine!”

Peggy’s grinning ear to ear. 

“James, listen,” he says, “I like you, but I don’t know you. I’d like to _get_ to know you, but right now you’re just a regular who’s pretty cute. I’m not sayin’ no, I’m saying sure, in a little while. Okay?”

“How long?” James asks, but it’s the wrong thing to ask.

Peggy winces, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

“James,” he says. 

“No, wait, I get it,” James says, trying to backpedal a little. “I don’t know anything about you either.”

“He’s got you there,” Peggy says, and Steve gives her a look.

“He doesn’t ‘have me’ anywhere, Peggy, it’s a deliberate choice,” he says. “I’m sick to death of giving people everything about me instantly and then waiting for them to figure out where I am underneath it all.”

Her smile fades a little and she gets up off the counter. 

“Sorry,” he says, but he says it through gritted teeth, and she holds up a hand.

“No, that’s fine,” she says, acquiescing. “You’re right, after all.”

He checks she’s not unhappy, staring at her for a few long seconds, and then he looks at James.

“I don’t know how long, there’s no arbitrary time period. I’m not sayin’ wait six months until you ask me out, I’m saying…I dunno - you wanna get to know me, James, take the time. Let me take the time, too - I’m not somebody who jumps in with both feet unless it’s a fight.”

“Don’t I bloody know it,” she mutters.

“Oh hush,” Steve says. “I mean it, James, I like you, I want to get to know you. I want you to get to know me. And I mean, let me be clear - I’m not looking for a quick fuck-”

James doesn’t choke but it’s close - has he ever heard Steve swear before? Probably not, it’s probably not a thing one does as the owner of a café in a rich area in the middle of the day.

“-I don’t do that.”

“That’s fine,” James says. “I’m not looking for a quick fuck either.”

“I’m also monogamous,” Steve says. “Those are both dealbreakers.”

“Me too,” James says. “I mean, I’ve done one-night-stands but I’m monogamous in relationships. Are we dating?”

“We’re _pre_ dating,” Steve says. “If that’s what you want. We’ll be dating if you like what you learn, let’s be friends and figure it out from there. Not a word of this to anyone, mind. _You_ can tell Nat you think I’m into you,” he points at Peggy, “ _you_ can tell Angie I might have met someone. But no details - my life is not your dirty laundry to air wherever you please.”

James looks at Peggy and expects to find her grinning but instead she’s looking pretty serious.

“Alright, darling,” she says, and holds out a hand. He shakes it just as she says, “for weekly text updates.”

“Goddamn it, Peggy,” he says. “It’s not legally binding just ‘cause we’re shaking when you say it,” but then he says, “you still on the same number?” anyway.

She nods. 

“I am indeed,” she says. “And I’m afraid my cherry blossom BB and I must be leaving you.”

“Ugh, sure,” Steve says, “couldn’t tell me that when you come in, that’d be too easy.”

She laughs, and Steve gets down off his step to go make it. 

BB turns out to stand for Blended Beverage, because apparently Starbucks will get on your ass if they think you’re using ‘Frappuccino,’ and Margaret ‘Peggy’ Carter takes hers with her when she goes.

“Lovely to meet you, James Barnes,” she says, and James looks her up and down.

“Likewise, beautiful,” he says, and she laughs, a clear, bell-like sound, and leaves them both behind.

When James looks over at Steve’s Steve’s got his arms open wide, hands on the counter, his head down as he stares in James' direction.

“So,” he says.

James leans back in his booth, arms stretched out along the wooden back.

“So!” he says, and can’t help the grin.

“Ahuh,” Steve says. “I’m gonna make myself a drink.”

“No sugar,” James says. “You’re sweet eno-”

“No!” Steve says. “I can rescind my offer any time.”

Except he’s smiling, though, and James feels like he’s walking on air. 

~

Once he’s made his soy whatever, he comes back out from behind the bar. He’s put his gloves back on, the fingerless ones, and he’s got his straw hat in his other hand.

“I’m going out back again, you coming?” he says, and James looks at him for a moment, stunned.

“Really?” he says.

Steve snorts.

“Yeah, really, come on,” he says, and James scrambles to stand. “Tell me where you were all weekend.”

“Oh that’s easy,” James says. “I went hiking. You should come along next time.”

But if Steve gets that James is trying to get time alone with him, he doesn’t let on.

“Oho yeah, sure,” he says, sarcasm coming from his voice in a way that James might label as _dripping._

Okay, so he doesn’t like hiking, James can deal with that. 

James follows him outside, through the airy, empty café, and Steve immediately, when they get outside, sits under one of the big navy-blue parasols, in a chair that leans back just a little like a garden chair. His lenses are starting to darken, and he points at the chair opposite for James to take a seat. 

James does, happily - he loves the sun - and he shuts his eyes and tips his head back.

“Ahhh,” he says, and Steve snorts.

When James looks at him, Steve’s taking a sip of his drink.

“What’d you make?” he asks, and Steve smacks his lips. 

“Caramel macchiato,” he says. “Extra caramel.”

“I’m not surprised - it’s good shit.”

Steve laughs, shakes his head. James isn't sure how much sun he thinks he’s going to wind up in under that entire parasol or why he’s wearing gloves on a day like today, but that’s Steve’s prerogative he supposes.

“Comes from someone I know,” Steve says, and James smiles, sits forward a little.

“Ooh, trade secrets?” he says, and Steve’s smile fades a little.

“Ehh,” he says. “I gotta be careful. Last guy I told about my cookies wound up sellin’ ‘em himself. Took all my good tips and started his own place with ‘em.”

“What?” James says. “That’s low!”

And Steve fixes him with a very sharp look.

“That’s business,” he says, and then he softens, looks away. He _gives James something:_ “It was also my boyfriend at the time.”

James wrinkles his nose and stares at Steve for a second or two.

“Wow,” he says. “That’s…”

Steve squints - James can see his eyebrows scrunching. 

“Yeah.”

They drink in silence for a couple of seconds, and then Steve shakes his head.

“Anyway, he’s long gone,” he says. “Fell in with a bad crowd, I don’t have to worry about him for another seven to ten.”

“Wow,” James mutters. “What for?”

“Bad shit,” Steve answers, but that’s all James is getting for now apparently. 

They sit in relatively companionable silence for a couple of minutes, until James can’t stand the silence and sticks his feet out from under the table.

“Ahhhhhh,” he says again, and Steve looks at him, then at his feet. 

Then he chuckles.

“Mhm,” he says. “Didn’t used to like the sun so much but…”

“How can you tell under all that shade?”

And Steve heaves a very heavy sigh.

“James,” he says, and he tilts his head back and looks at the sky - or, at least, he would were it not for the parasol. 

“What?” James says, frowning a little. “I just wanna know about you-”

“You wanna know everything at once,” Steve says. “And there’s too much! If I tell you everything at once, all there’ll be is what I’ve told you and there’s _me_ under all that. You know?”

“Not really,” James says, frowning. “I-I don’t mean to be awkward,” he adds, “just…can you at least tell me what you mean? Even if you can’t tell me the stuff?”

And Steve looks at him, looks around them at the lush green and bright blues and whites of the surrounding buildings and plants.

“I’m sick,” he says, and James' blood goes cold. 

He thinks three things first and foremost - the first is _oh shit I’m not equipped for a dying boyfriend how do I get out of this_ , the second is _Jesus Christ, wow, who fucking raised me?_ and the last is _but we were just starting out._

“Not like that,” Steve says, dry as a bone, “you can breathe,” and James didn’t realize he wasn’t, but he wasn’t so he does.

“Oh,” he says. “Good! That’s good. I was…gonna be real sad, you’re cute-”

“Stop diggin’, Buck, I know that look,” he says. “I mean, I am sick. I have a whole lot wrong with me, but I’m telling you because I want you to know I’m not wasting my time,” he says. “Life’s too short and I’m not messing around. It doesn’t stop me living but I need to be aware of certain things, and I want you to think about that, I want you to bear it in mind.”

James shrugs his shoulders. 

“Well I’m a cat person, not a dog person,” he says. “We all live our lives certain ways, right?”

Steve stares at him for a very long time. 

“I guess we do,” he says, but he doesn’t look convinced.

~

It’s not until James is home that evening, standing in the foyer of his parent’s mansion, that he realizes.

They talked about where they came from. They both were born in Brooklyn, although Steve’s was by design and James' was by happenstance. James' family were visiting family in Brooklyn when his mom went into labor - they wound up pretty sure that Steve went to elementary school with one of James' numerous cousins on his mother’s side. Steve lived in Brooklyn until he didn’t live in Brooklyn, and then followed his Now-Senator Then-Employer around until he worked for Erskine, James' whole family are Brooklynites, so he’s got the love and the accent even though he don’t have the experience. 

They talked about what they’re into - James likes dancing and music and socializing, and he likes to go hiking and hit the gym sometimes. He likes sci-fi media, and reads articles about NASA, when he’s not reading sci-fi, and he really likes textured food. Sesame brittle, caramelized nuts, fresh salad, breaded chicken, fried fish, sushi, you name it. If he can get his teeth into it, he will - and he’s got a raging sweet tooth to boot. 

They talked about hobbies - James doesn’t really have very many of those outside of dancing and hiking, but he likes to try new things to cook and he’s messed around on soundcloud a few times. He used to play the piano pretty steadily but he didn’t want to be a concert pianist so it fell by the wayside a little.

They talked about how their lives turned out - James' dad got the Russia post when James was fifteen, and he told Steve how it felt like the end of the world to find out they were moving. He told Steve what their place in Moscow was like, how it was being an American in a Russian college, how he met Natalia. He told Steve everything he could think of, covered every angle, tried to make it so there weren’t any questions.

Now he’s home, all he can think of is that everything he knows about Steve fits in one sentence. Brooklyn born-and-raised, and trying to make a dent in his chronic medical bills with a café that’s all he’s got in the world now he’s got no job in politics. Steve let him talk for hours and didn’t tell him a goddamn thing.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, and his voice echoes off the marble. “What the fuck?”

***

The thing is, is that James actually does have a job. His dad gets back from Washington that weekend and then James is on phone and email duty, James is fielding questions and making meetings - James isn't a kid, and his dad’s job isn’t over just because they’re back from Russia.

Which means he doesn’t see Steve for almost another week. 

The following Friday, when they’re back in the Hamptons instead of the (he’s forgotten the name of the hotel in DC, at this point they all look the same anyway) he asks his dad to beg off early, and sprints down to Polaris as fast as his feet will go. It’s not too fast given that it’s been breezy and there’s sand all over the path - he’s half worried he’ll slip and shatter his kneecaps - but he gets there and almost runs smack into the door just as Steve’s closing it. 

“Whoa!” he says, and, on the other side of the glass, Steve jerks back like he’s been smacked in the face because of the sudden appearance of someone in front of him, face a veritable thunderstorm when he looks up to see who this is.

The good news is that his expression clears a little as he takes James in.

“Hey,” he says, and then bites back a smile. “I’m closed.”

“Yeah,” James nods, out of breath - probably a mess, too, his hair’s still tied back but he can see wisps of it in front of his eyes, so it must be all over the place. “I don’t want nothin’, I just wanted to say hi.”

Steve’s mouth twists in amusement. It’s the most amused James has seen him so far. 

“Hi,” he says. “I’m closed.”

“Steve!” James groans, tipping his whole body back. “I don’t want anything!”

“Good,” Steve tells him. “Not sure I could remember your order at this point.”

“Yeah, ” there’s a door between them, “that’s why I wanted to come dow- Steve can you open the door a second?” 

“I’m closed,” Steve answers, and James just _looks_ at him.

Steve breaks a moment later, actually laughs, and it’s only as he does that James realizes a) he’s never seen Steve laugh and b) the rest of his life must now be dedicated to making him do it again. 

“Come on,” he says, and pulls the door open, and James shuffles inside while Steve locks up behind him. “Take a seat - you want a coffee?”

“You’re closed?” James says, dropping into the chair opposite the counter.

“Yeah but that’s to customers,” he says, and James feels his eyebrows go up. 

“What am I?” James asks, and Steve heaves a sigh.

“If I recall correctly, stranger, I was hopin’ we could be friends. Do you want anything?”

And James thinks about it, thinks long and hard about it. All the doors are closed, the register’s turned off, and he doesn’t doubt that the machines will have been shut off and cleaned by now, the utensils put away. 

“I’m good,” he says, and Steve looks surprised but pretty pleased. 

Steve’s busy tucking the chairs under the tables, setting sugar shakers back in their caddies, making sure the little baskets and boxes by the register are all aligned properly, and James doesn’t really know much about opening up shop or shutting up shop, but it doesn’t look like Steve’s got too much left to do.

“You do it all yourself?” James asks, and Steve points somewhere down back of the counter. 

James can’t see because it’s behind the counter, but he gets the point.

“Industrial dishwasher,” he says. “Most of the rest I do myself. When it gets busier in summer I’ll hire a dishwasher with a pulse and a personality.”

“Maybe me,” James says, and Steve snorts. “I got at least one’a those!”

“You wash your own dishes?” he says, and James tries hard not to blush about it because the answer’s yes.

Mostly.

“I could wash yours too,” he says, and Steve looks at him curious.

“I’ll bear it in mind,” he says. 

There’s a knock at the back door, and Steve waves at it - at someone James can’t see from here.

“Two minutes,” he says, and disappears into the stock room. 

When he comes out, he’s got two massive boxes that almost obscure him entirely.

“Do you-” James says, standing up to help.

“Naw, I’m fine,” Steve says. “Manage it every night.” 

And then he walks the boxes to the back door. James pokes his head around the corner to watch.

Steve’s talking to a guy who seems a little younger than him, who seems very enthusiastic, and who waves at James when he sees him from outside the café’s back door. James waves back, and Steve hands the boxes over. Whoever it is says something to Steve in a relatively happy tone of voice, and Steve laughs and says something back before he closes the door

James sits back down before Steve can tell him to - if he didn’t want help, he probably doesn’t want James snooping - and comes back around the corner to finish up with closing.

“Delivery?” James asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“Shelter donation,” he answers. “What I don’t sell can’t rollover to tomorrow, I might as well give ‘em to someone who can use ‘em. So where’ve you been all week?”

James takes a long slow breath and thinks about what he wants to answer with. 

“D.C.,” he says, and Steve makes a sort of ‘ah’ gesture with his head, without actually saying anything. “Otherwise I’d’ve been here - I missed your coffee.”

“I’m open tomorrow,” Steve says, and James figures he could go for it - why not?

“Alright, I missed _you,”_ he says. “I’d’ve texted you but I don’t have your number.”

“Smooth like sandpaper,” Steve answers. “But an ‘A’ for effort - you got your phone on you?”

“Uh,” James says, and Steve rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless. 

“Bring it tomorrow,” Steve says, polishing the side of the machine or whatever. 

“I will,” James says, “but I want you to know I forgot it ‘cause it’s on the console table in the foyer, and I ran down here to try and get here before you closed without stopping to pick it up.”

“Okay, first,” Steve says, “while I’m mortified that I know what a console table is, I’m mildly comforted by the fact that you’re tellin’ me yours is in the _foyer,_ James, Jesus Christ, I barely got a front door. But second,” he points at the ceiling, “Speaking of a front door,” and then he comes around the bar and crooks a finger at James as he passes. 

He’s jingling his keys, too, and James thinks they’re leaving except, when Steve opens the front door, he just points at the frame. 

James sticks his head out. 

“Doorbell?”

“Oh,” James says, and Steve laughs. 

“You can ring that thing if you need me and I’m closed, you don’t gotta hot-foot it for me. Come on back in,” he says, and locks up. “You comin’ out?”

James frowns at him.

“Huh?” he says, and Steve tucks the keys back into his pocket. 

“It’s Friday,” he says. “I’m goin’ out with my friends - did Nat not invite you?”

“No?” James says.

“Oh,” Steve answers, and he walks to the back of the shop. “Right, well. I’m inviting you - you comin’ out?”

“Yeah?” James answers. “Sure, yeah, I got nowhere else to be.”

“Ooh, flattery,” Steve says, and then he stands where he is and looks at James. “Well?”

“What?” James asks, and Steve puts his hand on one of the doors James always assumed was a storeroom. 

“You comin’ up? I gotta shower and change.”

“Oh!” James answers, and tries not to leap out of his seat like he’s been burned. “Sorry, I…thought you were just…yeah, I’m comin’.”

~

Steve’s place is almost as big as the café downstairs - which is to say it’s not big at all. It’s like a Marriott hotel room or something - kitchen’s more kind of a counter with a couple of appliances on it, there’s a two person couch and a coffee table with a laptop, and then there’s two doors that, presumably lead to bathroom and bedroom, although James doesn’t know which is which. There were two ways up - one is the stairs that come up from the café, and there’s another flight that comes in from the outside - but both sets met up halfway and then it was half a staircase up to Steve’s place. It’s so small that they had to squish together so that Steve could get to his door to unlock it. 

“Sit,” Steve says. “If you’re sure I can’t get you anything, I’m gonna grab a shower, get changed, and we’ll go. If you want somethin’, check the kitchen - I only have vegan mostly but you’re welcome to it. I have an air filter for my lungs in here so it can ‘cause headaches if you’re not used to it.”

James nods his thanks and then Steve walks through - okay, so at least James knows which door’s the bathroom - and goes to shower.

And the thing is, now’s when James would pull out his phone and start messing around, but his phone is on the aforementioned foyer console table, so he doesn’t have anything.

There are a couple of magazines hanging out on the coffee table, next to the laptop, and James picks on up. Art stuff, he sees. Painting with oils, digital media, photography. He flicks through and it keeps him occupied for a little bit, but it’s not really his scene. Although there are some particularly nice figure studies that remind him how long it’s been since he actually shared skin with anybody. 

He ignores the letters with Steve’s full name on them ‘cause he feels like that would be rude, but he can’t help spotting the pill bottle over on the kitchen counter when he thinks enough about a cup of coffee to look in that direction, but he’s not going over there if he might read the bottle accidentally. Which he totally would, he’s terrible at shit like that.

It’s not long after that the shower shuts off - which makes him very aware that he could hear it running in the first place, and he’s about to turn around at the sound of the door when Steve’s voice says,

“Okay, shield your eyes,” and so James dutifully looks in the other direction. 

“I’m not looking,” James says, covering his eyes with his hand.

“I can’t really hear you,” Steve answers. “But please don’t look at me.”

James frowns under his hand - the urge to look is _incredibly strong_ , made worse by the fact that he can’t ask why.

He fails completely - just as he hears the bedroom door, he looks. It’s a glance, and he does it by accident really, like his head just does it, and Steve doesn’t see so there’s no harm done. But what he saw in that split-second is…

Steve’s thin, James knows that. But seeing him without a shirt….He’s all skin and bone - he’s had his glasses on but, with his blond hair plastered to his head, and a towel slung low around _unreasonably sharp_ hips, James could see his ribs, a nasty bruise on his lower back, and every single vertebra in his spine as he shuffled, hunched-over, through his bedroom door.

There’s ink on his back but James didn’t see what it was - up between his shoulderblades, a little dark mark. And he could kind of see a little bit of whatever’s on his arms but…

Okay, here’s the thing - James thinks Steve’s got a pretty fucking cute face, and he thinks Steve’s body is skinny but like….in the way that James could totally just grab and pin down and-

So, okay, Steve says he’s sick but he’s got it under control, right? And if he’s got it under control, James is totally allowed to think he’s hot, right? Narrow shoulders, narrow hips, big eyes, big hands, skin so pale he’s almost glowing and dusted with freckles all over - James really, really wants him. 

There’s a noise like a vacuum cleaner that James realizes is a hair-dryer a moment later, so he’s got a little bit longer to wait, obviously. 

Like, for a minute or two, he entertains himself fantasizing about walking right in after Steve and just overcoming the inevitable surprise by grabbing for him and kissing him senseless and spreading him out on the bed and getting his mouth all over-

Okay, he needs to stop or he’s gonna get hard on Steve’s couch and there’s no way _that_ counts as taking it slow. 

Steve doesn’t take too long anyway, and he looks drop-dead gorgeous when he comes out. A button-down shirt that’s sticking out the bottom of a cobalt-blue sweater, which is under a thin gray cardigan, over black jeans that are just a little less skinny than the ones he wore in the shop. He’s got a huge, gray pashmina slung around his neck and shoulders, and a brown leather satchel with the strap across his chest. He pulls a grey jersey fabric beanie onto his head.

“Good to go?” he says as he shuts his bedroom door behind him, and James stands.

“Sure!” he says. “Yeah, sure.”

Steve smiles, grabs his pill bottle off the counter, and shoves it in his satchel. Then he grabs his gray beanie off the counter. 

“Alright,” he says, and James heads for the door.

***

James finds, when they get to the bar, that Peggy and Natalia and a few people he doesn’t know are hanging out there at a single table.

“Still no Sam?” one of them asks, literally as soon as they walk in the door - blond disaster-looking guy covered in bruises and bandaids. 

James is confused but Steve says “he doesn’t get leave until July, you know that,” as they walk over. “Hey Clint.”

“Oh, this is Barnes?” the man who’s now been identified as ‘Clint’ says, and the dude next to him - black guy with a cream turtleneck, burnt orange jacket, and a seriously cool vibe - smiles broadly.

“Heard a lot about you, man,” he says, and stands as they reach the table to hold out a hand. “Gabriel.”

And the guy next to him, with a truly awful mustache, stands too. 

“Tim,” he says, and then he side-eyes Gabriel. “ ‘Gabriel,’ huh?” 

“Gabe to my friends, Tim, but I don’t know the guy,” he sing-songs.

“That’s fine,” James says, reaching out to shake Gabriel’s hand. “James.”

“Good to meet you,” Gabriel answers, and then James shakes with Tim and Clint too. 

“We good? Introduced?” Steve says, amusement in his eyes, sitting in a chair already, and James doesn’t think he’s ever seen Steve look so relaxed. 

“I’ll get the first round in,” James says, because he knows how to make a good impression, and Steve starts unraveling his pashmina. “We all on beer?”

“No beer,” Steve says, “no alcohol, I can’t drink on my meds.”

James nods, and everybody else gives him their various orders, but they’re mostly having beer. Tim with the mustache is having a Cosmopolitan. He says it like he expects James to say something about it - James is about to order himself a cotton candy martini so it’s no skin off his nose. 

He’s standing at the bar, watching Steve carefully stow his pashmina, when the barman actually has to get his attention. He apologizes profusely - that’s….really not acceptable behavior, and he says as much. He thinks it wins him back a little respect but is it his fault that Steve’s so fuckin’ cute? He waits, he pays, and then he takes the drinks back to the table. That’d be a good gift to get Steve - a pashmina. A really nice one that brings out his eyes. Actually, anything hispter is a good thing to get Steve, or maybe punk - James used to be punk when he was younger, before the move to Russia (because it’s hard to be punk when you’re only allowed to be punk with permission).

He passes the drinks out - beers various for everyone, a non-alcoholic beer for Steve, his cotton candy martini and Tim’s Cosmo. 

Then he sits down. 

He sees Steve very carefully setting his alcohol-free beer to one side, at which point he turns his head and says something very quiet to Natalia. She nods.

“Powder room,” she says, and then gets up. 

James frowns as she walks off but it’s probably nothing, right?

For the most part, he keeps his mouth closed for the first couple of minutes. He answers questions and laughs along with the jokes, but he’s watching Steve really. He’s doing it for two reasons - one, he’s pretty sure Steve isn’t going to drink the drink James bought him and, two, he can’t help it. He wants to take those thick-rimmed glasses off Steve’s enormous nose, and push him down into a pile of pillows. He knows it’s inappropriate, and he’d literally never say any of this to Steve until they’d been dating at least a month or something, but he’s impatient, and Steve’s skin is smooth and covered in freckles, and his clothes fit him really well even though he’s tiny and James wants to take him to pieces, wants to ruin him absolutely, wants to wring pleasure from him until he cries. 

James is going to get a hard on under the table if he’s not very careful. 

When Natalia comes back, she does so innocuously, and slips easily into the conversation, but James sees the moment she settles a glass of something clear on the table between herself and Steve. 

When Steve drinks, it’s from the glass she gave him, and not the bottle James bought. 

James swallows his disappointment. And tries not to get pissed about the pettiness of it.

They go on with their night, instead. 

~

Everybody orders a burger, aside from Steve, who orders something that arrives and looks like its been made out of foam and plastic.

“Ugh,” Tim says, and Steve just rolls his eyes. 

“It’s edible,” Steve answers, though he does so sourly enough to indicate that he’s also not hugely pleased with what’s in his basket, and Tim laughs, Gabe does too. 

Gabe’s actually consented to letting James call him Gabe now, so he doesn’t feel bad for thinking it. 

Steve makes a complicated hand-gesture or two, and James wonders if it’s sign before he recognizes the sign of the cross. 

“You’re vegan or something?” James asks, but by the time he asks Steve has the ‘burger’ halfway to his face and has his mouth open, too - he’s got a fair few fillings in his back teeth. 

“Try allergic to everything,” he answers instead. “If I tell you I can eat shellfish and peanuts, just discount everything else and we’re good.”

And then he takes an enormous bite of his ‘burger.’

“Rather you than me,” Tim says.

“Rather this than an epi pen,” Steve answers without looking up from his meal, and Tim has the good grace to look abashed.

“You’d need one of those?” James asks.

“Pardon?” Steve says, tilting his head toward James.

“Would you need an epi pen?” James says, and Steve’s expression clears, he shakes his head.

“Unlikely,” he answers through the last of his mouthful - it should be atrocious but James thinks it’s adorable. “But not impossible. Also, I have an epi pen in my bag, don’t worry - Nat knows how to use it.”

She bobs her eyebrows when James looks at her. 

“Plus if I need help, I’ve got this,” and he lifts his arm, shakes it to make his engraved bracelet flash - James is close enough this time to spot the staff and snake of a MedicAlert logo. “Happy Birthday me. Can’t have wheat, gluten, lactose. There’s others but those are the big ones. I’m coeliac, so wheat is a _real no._ And if it happens by accident it’s an absolute bitch. Plus nobody should be in my flat for twenty-four hours.”

“Why?” Clint asks and then somebody kicks him under the table.

James is pretty sure it was Natalia. 

“Ow,” he says. “Oh.”

Steve bites back a smile and James glances at Tim, and at Nat-

His eyes catch the bottle, still open, still unfinished, next to Nat, and it’s then that he gets it.

“You can’t drink it,” he says, and Steve looks at him, then at the bottle. “Because it’s beer.”

Steve nods, still eating. 

“No alcohol,” he says, swallowing his mouthful, “but it’s still fermented grains.”

“Fuck,” James says. “Sorry.” 

Steve’s chewing slows. 

“I should have clarified,” he says. “Wheat, gluten, dairy because lactose, and a couple of other things. But I can still have peanuts, and I can still eat shellfish. So life could be worse.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Gabe says. “I don’t know what I’d do without Reese’s.”

“Dairy,” Steve answers, and Gabe waves a hand, conceding. 

“So that’s why you drink soy or almond all the time,” James says, and Steve looks at him.

“Yep,” he says, and then he starts in on his fries. “And it’s why I wear vinyl gloves - if I serve those danishes and then stick my finger in my mouth, there’s gonna be a problem.”

“Well thank fuck you told me,” James says. “I was gonna make cookies for you this weekend.”

“Ugh, lightweight,” Peggy says, and James looks at her. “Make him some gluten free ones, you idiot - is romance _dead?”_

“Peg,” Steve says, but James shrugs.

“Maybe I will,” he says. “I’ll have to pick my moment though, I can’t do it now - you’d know. Ruin the surprise.”

“Yeah, Peggy,” Tim smirks. “Ruin the surprise.”

“Gabriel, sweetheart,” Peggy says, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Don’t be a dick, Tim,” he says. “Otherwise I’ll have to deal with you.”

Tim goes very pink very quickly and decides to keep drinking his Cosmopolitan.

“So, all queers?” James asks, and then, in the split-second between what he’s said and how everybody reacts, he knows he’s made a mistake.

He gets,

“Excuse me?” from Gabe, “the fuck?” from Tim, and _“what!?”_ from Clint, but then Steve’s putting a hand out in the middle of the table, dead serious, understandably.

“Cool your jets all’a yous,” he says.

“I’m queer,” James says immediately. “Sorry - I should have put ‘we’ in there, I’m queer, I’m also queer.”

Tim sighs very heavily through his nose, and Gabe doesn’t look convinced, but James knows how to grovel.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I really should’a thought first - I only had a small group of friends in Russia but we were all queer one way or another. ‘Course you hadda be quiet about it.”

“No shit,” Gabe says, easing back into his chair a little. 

“I just figured how it’s weird we all end up in the same place, ain’t it?” James continues. “Somehow we always find each other.”

“Gaydar,” Natalia says, and everybody chuckles. 

And then Steve glances up at James through his lashes, regards him for a long few moments, and they go back to their conversation.

***

James walks Steve home after.

It’s only maybe ten but Steve’s working tomorrow - the café will be open. He’s got to be up to unlock, even though it opens slightly later on weekends, and the others protest in what James assumes is the usual fashion when he talks about making his exit. 

“Listen, you idiots wanna come see me, my cash register’s always ready,” he says, and there are various parting shots and a jeer or two, but they let him go.

James gets up and follows, and Steve looks confused as he pauses with his pashmina wrapped halfway around his shoulders.

“You don’t have to come with me,” he says, almost curious, and James shrugs, shoving his hands in his pockets. 

“I wanna walk you home,” he says.

Steve waits a few seconds but takes a long, slow breath in and nods eventually. 

“Okay,” he says. “But that’s it, no funny stuff.”

“Scout’s honor,” James answers. “Or whatever.”

And they walk the five or ten minutes back to the café and Steve’s flat. 

James is true to his word, and Steve is very quiet. They walk slowly in the cool night air, and Steve shivers about halfway there.

“You cold?” James asks, because the air can be biting, especially to someone with a little insulation as Steve, he figures. 

“I’m always cold to some degree,” Steve answers. “I got bad circulation and anemia, they don’t work well together. Or, I guess, they work great together, depending on your objective.”

James laughs softly.

“You want my jacket?” he says, holding his lapel, and Steve looks at him as they walk.

“As nice as your cologne is,” he says, “it wouldn’t make a difference honestly. But I appreciate the offer.”

They get to the back entrance to the café/flat, and Steve turns to face James. 

“I really wanna kiss you goodnight,” James says.

“Yeah, well, I’d still like for you to wait a little bit,” Steve says, but his voice is soft. “I had a good time tonight. It was nice to go out and be friends, I don’t get out much.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” James says, but it’s the wrong thing to say, he thinks. 

Steve’s expression changes just a little, in a way James can’t define, but he thinks it’s displeasure, somehow.

“I’ll see you on Monday, Bucky,” he says, not unkindly, and then turns to unlock his door. “Goodnight.”

He looks so good in his jacket and his pashmina, sure of himself and his style despite his demeanor. 

“Good- Goodnight,” James answers, as Steve disappears, but James won’t see him Monday - James will see him tomorrow.

It’s been a week since he had himself the kind of coffee you just can’t make yourself and, if coffee someone else makes tastes good, nothing tastes better than when Steve makes it. 

~

When he’s alone, he doesn’t even try to not-picture Steve. He’s _happy_ to think of Steve. In fact, he’s a little annoyed when he gets home that he’s got to deal with his parents still being up - they want him to read a couple of articles they think he’ll be interested in, one of them’s finishing up a TV show on the iPad. James can’t stop thinking about pale skin and soft words, and fading bruises. He entertains himself with the fantasy when he gets to the guesthouse, pushes the door open and imagines it’s Steve’s flat, goes to his bedroom and imagines it’s Steve’s.

If it were Steve’s, Steve would be in it, in a towel, pale and skinny and, back turned, he wouldn’t hear James until James was right behind him. James pushes his shoes off with his toes, flings his jacket and loosens his tie, and drops himself onto the bed. Steve would turn around in shock and James would be right there, right up against him, and when they kissed Steve would go soft and pliant in his arms, Steve would tip his head back and moan softly while James found all those freckles with his mouth.

He just pictures Steve naked, is what it is. Flushed and panting and staring up at James, hands pinned over his head while he writhes and moans, his mouth open, his head back, his cock flushed and hot in James' hand, his legs spread and all that pink, wet-

So he doesn’t last long, obviously. It’s gonna be a while until he can get to that with Steve but Steve’s pretty much said they will just as soon as he knows James well enough, and James - God, James can barely _wait._

When he’s cleaned up, he checks his messages - he wants to spend the day at Polaris tomorrow, so he’s going to bed now, early. 

Steve, he finds, texted him twenty minutes ago. 

_Night, Buck._

James winces and texts him back a goodnight of his own, but he waits for another half hour and the message doesn’t show as read.

***

When James walks into Polaris the next morning, he’s aiming to be the first customer there. He isn’t, by two or three people, but Steve’s dutifully making his drink when he walks in.

“Morning, beautiful,” James says, and Steve raises an eyebrow.

“Atrocious,” Steve says, and is already handing the latte over, damn. “Latte for Barnes.”

James passes his card over the reader and smirks as he takes it, bobs his eyebrows as he takes a sip.

“In or out today?” Steve says. “You oughta text me and lemme know, I can stop wastin’ paper cups - you bring your phone?”

“Mmh!” James says, and pulls it from his pocket. “I did.”

Steve holds out a gloved hand and James unlocks it and hands it over. 

“I’m putting me in under Steve R Polaris,” he says.

“Polaris is your last name?” James says, and Steve chuckles.

“No, _Rogers_ is my last name, hence the ‘R.’”

“Then you got a middle name?” James asks, and Steve hands the phone back to him. 

“I do,” he says, and James scoffs and rolls his eyes but lets it go, goes to take a seat. 

“Well can’t be worse than ‘Buchanan’ so whatever,” he mutters, as he puts a little heart next to Steve’s name.

“James,” Steve says and, when he looks up, Steve staring at him. 

“Yeah?” he asks, and Steve’s mouth does that twisty thing.

“Why you into me?” he says. 

“You’re cute,” James answers because it’s true and he doesn’t have to hide it if they’re ‘pre-dating’ - “why you into _me?”_

Steve blinks rapidly for a couple of seconds, and then his brow furrows. 

“I’m into you because you’re good-looking and you’re a flirt, and you’ve been complimentary. You’ve got a good sense of humor that I can tell and you don’t seem like one of those ‘let me convince you my dick and my bank account are both huge’ guys.”

James smiles. 

“There we are then,” he says, and Steve doesn’t shake his head but he gives off that vibe. 

“Handsome’s too good for me?” he says. 

And James blinks. 

“What?” he says, and Steve takes a large breath in through his nose. 

“You’ve said a couple times you think I’m cute,” Steve answers. “And I respect that, it’s your opinion. I just wanna check that you’re not under some impression that I’m gonna be your sweet little pocket-boyfriend you can carry on your shoulders at concerts and protect from the world at large.”

And…

“I mean, you’re tiny and adorable,” James answers.

Steve stares at him for a very, very long few moments, with the kind of look in his eyes that suggests James might be on literal fire if Steve were even vaguely telepathic.

“What?” James says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Given that both my demeanor and physical appearance are the product of some pretty tough involuntary shit,” he answers eventually, in a weirdly level tone, “that’s not a view I’d like to encourage.”

James squints at him.

“Uh, okay,” he says. “So you’re…uh.”

“I’m physically stunted and angry about a lot of it,” Steve says. “And I’m also a top, so you can-”

James nearly chokes on thin air.

“What?” he says before he thinks not to flap his mouth, and then he stands up. “Wait.”

“A-huh,” Steve sighs, but hes already turning around to get back to…

Well, actually. He wasn’t doing anything, so presumably he’s turning away to ignore James.

“Wait, waitwait,” James says, moving as fast as he can back towards the counter, bumping into it in his haste to get there. “Wait, okay, my mouth goes first, I don’t think, I’m just surprised but-”

“Why?” Steve says.

“Aw, don’t do this,” James answers.

“You’re surprised I’m a top?” Steve persists, and James puts both hands on the counter and sighs.

“Honestly?” he says. “Yes. I’m surprised you’re a top, and yes, I thought you’d be my cute, pale, punk pocket boyfriend, and I was wrong. I know that now, okay?”

Steve leans back, folds his arms and locks his jaw. 

“Yeah, okay, I know,” James says. “But, in my defense, you haven’t told me anything about yourself. I’m a switch, I don’t give a fuck, but way to spring it on a guy when he least expects it. ”

Steve purses his lips and narrows his eyes, thinking about it. And, slowly, he nods. 

“Okay,” he says, with a big Brooklyn vowel in the middle. “That’s true.”

“I know it’s true,” James says. “That’s something politicians don’t like about me - I tend to be honest. I also tend to be smooth but you throw me off my game ‘cause you’re hot. Attractive. Handsome, right?”

Steve rolls his eyes and waves a hand.

“Yeah, but,” James says. “Okay. If you can’t be my cute pocket boyfriend, that’s fine. I thought you were a twink but I can be your twunk instead, it’s not a big deal, I just didn’t realize. I’m sorry. And I want- Steve, I _want_ to _know_ things about you. Okay? I want to hear about all the stuff you think I won’t see you under.”

“It’s a list,” Steve says. “It’s a literal list.”

“Steve,” James says. “Can I be real with you a second?”

“Oho, by all means,” Steve says, sounding skeptical as ever. “Go right ahead.”

“First time I saw you I was like ‘that guy has an enormous nose.’ And then-”

“Hey!”

“Hold on, and then I was like ‘oh shit he’s hot.’ Like the nose thing was from a distance and I was wrong about that too. And I’m not gonna lie to you, I want in your bed, I wanna see all those faces I bet you make, and I wanna hear all that-”

“Bucky!” Steve hisses, looking left and right, but there’s nobody else here, the place is empty - or, at the very least, there’s nobody in earshot.

“-noise, but I like your jokes and I like your fashion sense. I like your coffee. But what else do I even know?”

And then Steve looks at him, arms still mostly folded, really stares at him for a long few seconds with his eyes a little narrowed. 

“You don’t gotta tell me shit,” James says, “but then don’t act all surprised when I don’t know nothin’, okay?” 

Steve takes a long, slow breath and blinks, eyes big behind his glasses. 

“A’right,” he says. “My name’s Steve G. Rogers, I ain’t givin’ you the ‘G’ now. I got no family to speak of and everything wrong with me you can think of that ain’t gonna kill me fast. I’m a bottom with women and a top with men, I love peanut, I want a pet but I can’t take care of one now, and…” and the freight-train strength with which he was rattling everything off tapers down to pretty much nothing. “I paint.”

James feels his eyebrows go up.

“You paint?” he says. “What kind of stuff, landcapes, portraits?” 

“Little of everything,” Steve answers, but he barely moves his mouth, and James laughs. 

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll back off. What you wanna know about me?”

“Republican or democrat?” Steve answers, and James snorts.

“Democrat,” he says. 

“Then is there anything else you think I oughta know?” 

James laughs, shakes his head.

“Nah,” he says. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything.”

Steve nods slowly, looks James over like he expects James to use this information against him somehow.

“So when do you get off?” James says instead, and Steve stays very still for a moment or two and then lifts one slow hand and jabs his thumb toward the analogue clock that hangs behind the counter. 

“I got a break at eleven,” he says. “Providing it stays quiet in here.”

James grins, bobs his eyebrows, and take a good sip of his coffee. 

“Yeah?” he says. “I can wait.”

~

Precisely because James has said he can wait, eleven decides to take an extra half-hour to arrive. James sits there, phone in hand, not-watching the numbers rise. At one point, when it’s been ten-forty-nine for at least five minutes, James is starting to think eleven will never come, but then four old ladies in joggers and fanny packs hustle in like they think it’s Florida, because of course they do, and Steve treats every single one of them like they’re his personal grandma. He knows at least two of them by name and has their orders ready almost immediately.

He must get a lot of regulars. 

James starts getting annoyed with them around eleven-oh-four, because, hello? He was meant to get to talk to Steve like _four minutes_ ago. He has to rein himself in a little because he _knows_ this is how Steve makes a living, he _knows._

When the Florida Brigade finally files back out onto the sidewalk, Steve puts together something that looks fairly simple in a medium-sized cup, and then props up a sign on the counter and grabs his giant straw hat from the coat hooks on his way past.

“Coming?” he asks, and James practically jumps out of his seat to follow.

They go back out to the table Steve likes, and take their seats, and James just looks at him. Steve takes a minute or two to get set up, producing a little white box and his fingerless gloves from the pocket of his apron. The box is the speaker for the electronic doorbell Steve keeps on the counter, and James is struck, as Steve puts on his gloves, by just how covered he is. 

“How come you dress up like this?” he says, gesturing to the hat and then the gloves.

“Skin problem,” Steve answers. “Used to be eczema, now it’s a rash. Not contagious.”

James frowns and tilts his head. He’d gathered it wasn’t contagious, otherwise Steve probably wouldn’t be able to work in food, but still.

“A rash?”

Steve nods slowly.

“Yep,” he says. “Long sleeves, high collar, hat, gloves. Unless I want a rash from my knuckles to my elbows, and all over my neck.”

James just stares at him.

“And it’s eczema?” he clarifies.

Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “It used to be eczema.”

And then he narrows his eyes a little, looks down at his hands, and looks back at the shop before he sighs.

“I’m…” he says. Then he turned his head back and looks at James. “I’m allergic to the sun,” he says.

James feels his mouth open and his eyebrows come down.

“The _Sun?_ ” he says. “You can be allergic to the _Sun?”_

“You really can,” Steve answers. “It’s called PMLE, I’ll let you look it up.”

“Wait,” James says, reaching out for him - he manages to grab Steve’s wrist but then lets go immediately because it feels like an overstep. “Should you be outside?” 

Steve glances around the seating area and nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Hat and shirt’ll do it, the gloves are just for my hands in case the shade moves and I don’t see. And-” he points upward at the parasol “-this is my parasol. It’s double thickness just in case.”

James frowns, and looks around the seating area for himself, and he sees that’s right - at all the other tables, even though they’re shielded by parasols, the tables still cast a shadow on the ground, inside the shadow of the parasol. Under theirs, there’s the big, black, scalloped circle of the shade the parasol casts, and nothing else.

“So night dates only?” James says, and Steve huffs a laugh through his nose. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I gotta be careful in the morning when it comes in the front - it only takes about a half hour and then I’m-” he holds up his hands “-an open wound for like a fortnight.”

James winces.

“Really?” he says. “It gets that bad?”

Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip and looks at him for a long moment.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s like thousands of tiny little blisters the size of a pinhead and they itch. They go away after a while, but…” he shakes his head and laughs bitterly. “I have to leave them be for them to do that.”

James can’t think of anything to say to that, really - he’s got no idea what it’s like.

“Is…” he says, floundering for something to say. “Is it….difficult?”

Which is a dumb question, of course it’s difficult.

“I scratch in my sleep,” Steve answers. “I’ve got cotton gloves for it, don’t worry.”

James reaches out without thinking and tucks his fingers into Steve’s palm. Steve watches him do it.

“They don’t hurt now, right?” he says. 

Steve flicks his gaze up to look at James.

“They’re fine,” he says. 

He doesn’t say anything else, and James is finding his expression hard to read.

“No?” he says softly, and Steve’s eyes narrow just a little. 

He doesn’t grip James' fingers, but he doesn’t lift his hand away either.

~

It’s getting on for lunchtime when Steve asks if he hasn’t got anywhere better to be.

“No,” James tells him. “I was thinking of going out to lunch at this nice little place I know, maybe you’ve heard of it.”

“Don’t,” Steve says, but he’s smiling. “What are you having?”

“Hm,” James answers. “What would you pick?” 

Steve, who is busy putting on more plastic gloves, turns around and plants his hands on his hips - except he’s wearing gloves, so he puts the backs of his wrists on his hips instead.

“Don’t you got any taste?” he says.

James raises an eyebrow - _if I don’t have taste, why am I attracted to you?_ \- and Steve just sighs heavily. 

“Any taste of your own,” he clarifies. “You’re always askin’ me what I think - why don’t you tell me what you want?” 

James laughs.

“Maybe I wanna know what you’d eat,” he says, smiling, and Steve shakes his head a little. 

“I can’t have anything from here,” he says eventually, his voice quiet. “I’ve got some allergen compliant stuff but one of the women who was in this morning can’t have dairy and she’s having a party this weekend, so she cleaned me out.”

James feels himself frowning. 

“Wait so…what was it you would’ve had?”

“Vegetable sushi, maybe, or there’s some compliant bread, and I got around here someplace some sorta-pastries, little sweet ones. There’s a type of cookie, too. It’s like, chocolate chip but everything’s substitutes. I’ll grab lunch from upstairs - I got tofu pressing right now so I can just go grab some of that and have some with some greens later. So what would _you_ like?”

James frowns.

“If I can’t buy you lunch,” he says, “I’d like one of your finest sandwiches, please,” and Steve’s mouth twists. 

“If you mean most-expensive I’ve got a weird lobster thing that I literally only sell because people around here think it’s quaint to have lobster from a tiny café. But if you mean _good,_ I’ve got a guy does turkey, havarti and heritage tomato on an everything bagel, with really good caramelized onions. Maui, I think? Plus cream cheese. He’s a really good guy.”

“He home-make the bagels too?” James asks, grinning, but Steve’s already moving over to the display case.

“Yeah!” he says, one hundred percent not sarcastic. 

James blinks.

“Oh,” he says. “Then….I guess one’a those?”

Steve nods.

“Sure,” he says. “Good choice.”

James watches him take it out of the display and then he loses sight of Steve because Steve is a lot shorter than him and busy (presumably) plating the bagel. 

“Anything to drink?” Steve calls out, and James shakes his head.

“I’m good for now,” he says.

Steve appears from behind the counter with his plate in hand, and brings it over to James. He sets it down on the table and then turns around to go back behind his counter. 

“Let me know what you think and I’ll text him,” he says. 

James takes a bite.

“Oh my god,” he mutters, and Steve laughs. “This is so good. Hey this is so good!”

“Yeah, that’s why I get them from my guy,” Steve says, but he steps up onto his step behind the counter, and smiles when he looks at James.

“You gonna go get your tofu, we can eat together?” 

And Steve’s mile fades.

“I…” he says, and then his gaze slides sideways, his shoulders come up a little. “Nah. I don’t feel like it.”

There’s something James is missing, he’s almost positive. 

“Oh,” he says. “Well why don’t you come sit with me? I mean, you can do that, right? You- I’m not gonna set you off if-”

“Nah, it’s not _that_ bad,” Steve answers. “I went to school with a kid like that about peanuts. You opened a peanut butter cup and you’d have to call an ambulance.”

“Jesus,” James mutters, but Steve just shrugs his shoulders.

 _“C’est la vie,”_ he answers, and then chuckles to himself. “At least he could eat a fuckin’ sandwich.”

***

James lives in his parents’ guesthouse because there’s no point him buying a property here. They’re happy to let him pay his rent by doing his job, which was their idea, and mostly, at the moment anyway, his job is done by the weekend. There’ll be more work for him later in the year, probably, but mostly he’s his father’s assistant, with a lunch break that’s long enough to see Steve daily.

In D.C., or anywhere else that requires a commute, his day starts at maybe four-thirty with a trip to the gym, and ends at eight or nine in the evening when he gets home. At home with his parents in the Hamptons, he can get up at six in the morning and be done by seven most nights, and he drives well enough that he can get to Polaris on his lunch break and back to get straight back to working for his dad in time. 

It’s cushy, he knows; he’s basically his father’s secretary. But that doesn’t make it _easy,_ it just means he might get a little more lenience for a mistake, and a little more room to apologize if he needs to. His job security is assured while his father’s still working, and then basically guarantees him a job in similar circles if he wants one once his dad retires, but it’s tough work. Sure, he handles the calls and the letters and the emails while his dad is in meeting after meeting, but he has to know everything about the people he’s communicating with. Senator Deeny won’t take calls until after one but Senator Hargrave won’t take them after four, Congresswoman Johnston doesn’t like coffee and won’t accept invitations to informal meetings unless there will be English tea available, Representative Toney is a recovering alcoholic and it’s James’ job to cover and lock the wet bar in his father’s office if she’s coming to visit - not because he has to keep it out of sight from Rep Toney, but because James’ father tends to forget he shouldn’t ask. Most people would.

It doesn’t sound difficult, but it’s everything from knowing multiple phone numbers to several places of residence, knowing spouse versus partner versus divorcee, knowing voting history and personal history and that’s just for the roughly five hundred voting members of congress, not to mention the other ambassadors - and their many and varied intermediaries and liaisons - that form the network of colleagues his father works with. Who's had kids, who's got pets, James is George Barnes' primary resource for not putting his foot in it.

That is the first part of his job.

The second part of his job is arranging everything else about, and around, his dad’s busy schedule. James has spreadsheets within spreadsheets, contact tables within contact tables, and he does all of his jobs perfectly, whether it’s arranging a six person conference call or figuring out what to get Rep Hanton’s husband for Christmas. Shared calendars, clashing schedules, different timezones and everything in between - James organizes his father’s life so that his father can do his job right. They make a damned good team.

But this means that James doesn’t like it when his scheduled plans go awry - like the afternoon he heads over to Polaris to grab a cup of coffee and a bagel, only to find that the café is closed. 

Disappointment sinks like a stone in his stomach, and the imagined notes of caramel and honey from his current favorite coffee turn sour on his tongue where they’d been almost palpable in his anticipation. The lights are out, the door is closed and locked, the blind is down. Polaris is closed. And, other than the traditional painted “Closed” sign that’s been flipped on the door, there’s nothing to explain why. Not “Back Soon” or “Gone Fishin’ ” or whatever, just…

Closed.

James frowns - he couldn’t get here yesterday but Steve texted him last night, they were talking about what pastries Steve wants to bring in when the weather starts turning colder, how he’s thinking maybe spiced custard danishes if he can find a good supplier for them.

 _‘Hey,’_ he types. _‘Didn’t know you were closed today.’_

In the couple of months he’s been back now, he’s never seen Polaris closed - at least not when he’s come to grab coffee. James can’t get here _every_ day, of course, but he’s here often enough.

Steve doesn’t answer his text, not while he’s got his phone in his hand. 

James has time - maybe fifteen minutes - and so he goes around back of the block to make sure the place is all shut up. None of the parasols are out, none of the doors are open and, when he looks up at Steve’s flat window, the blind is down. He frowns, shoots Steve another text.

_‘You ok?’_

Steve doesn’t answer him in the remaining ten minutes he’s there, and so James goes back home without his coffee or his lunch.

Steve hasn’t answered him by the time he goes to bed either.

~

James doesn’t have a message in the morning, doesn’t get one all through the day, and Polaris is still closed at lunch. By the evening, James is beginning to wonder if it’s some elaborate plan to avoid him.

The place is as dark now as it has been the other three times he’s checked and, when he goes around back, there’s no indication that it was open at all in between James’ visits. Parasols still closed, building still dark. 

James is starting to worry.

What would happen if something terrible befell Steve? He said he was sick, right, like in general? Well maybe he missed his meds or something, maybe he ate something bad. 

Maybe he ate something he’s _allergic_ to, God. 

On the other hand, maybe he’s not around at all, went for a day trip somewhere or something. Except he doesn’t have a car.

Out of being antsy and wanting for something to do, James tries the door at the back of the café, the one that leads up to the flat steps, and…

It’s open. 

The door opens with a little click, and then there’s an inch of space between the door and the frame and…

Shit, Steve has an ex who’s in jail, right? Maybe he sent someone after Steve. That’s ridiculous. Isn’t it? But once he’s got the thought in his head, he can’t tamp down on the worry. Steve is probably fine, but James has heard stories about people who trusted their instincts and were right the whole time, people camping who felt someone watching them and turned out to have evaded a mountain lion, people taking the long way home instead of a shortcut and avoiding a pile-up. People who thought something was wrong, and turned out to be right. Steve has a MedicAlert bracelet, for God’s sake, something could be seriously wrong.

He goes inside, and climbs the stairs, and he tries to be as quiet as he can before he realizes that his plan is to knock on Steve’s door and check that he’s okay, and that will make noise anyway. Unless his front door is open, in which case the plan is to grab the nearest heavy object and swing at anything under five-foot-four that moves. 

The door, he can see pretty clearly at the join in the stairs, is shut, thank God. Shut might not mean locked, but at least it doesn’t mean kicked-in. He tries the handle when he reaches the top, slow and careful. If there _is_ something untoward going on, the last thing he wants is to alert anyone inside. 

Except it’s locked. 

James debates what he’s going to do for what feels like the longest ten seconds of his life, and then makes up his mind.

He knocks on the door.

“Steve?” he says.

There’s no answer after five seconds, after ten, and James feels the hair stand up on the back of his neck.

“Steve, you home?” he says, knocking louder this time, and he hears nothing from inside. 

He chews his lip. 

_He_ could kick the door in maybe.

“Steve!” he yells, and he bangs his fist on the door. “Steve, are you in the-”

There’s a noise like coins being thrown on a table and then the door pops inward an inch, and Steve is right there.

He looks _terrible._

“You’re-!” Bucky says, but he doesn’t get to tell Steve how alive he is because Steve cuts him off.

"Tell me," Steve says, his breaths hard and heavy, his face sheet-white except for spots of bright color high on his cheekbones and sparse golden stubble, eyes glassy behind the lenses of his glasses, hair plastered to his forehead, and James' elation quickly sours, "that you didn't..." he breathes, "get me up...just to see if...I'm okay."

James frowns.

"Uh," he says.

" ‘Tasha," Steve answers. "D'you call'er?"

James feels himself go cold.

"I," he says, and Steve's brow comes right down.

"I've got it," he says, "comin' outta both ends for... _three days_ an' you-"

"I-I'm sorry," James says, but Steve just deflates against the door frame. 

"Either come in 'r don't but," Steve pushes back off the doorframe and disappears into the flat, "I'm goin' back to bed."

And he leaves the door open. 

James just stands there for a long few moments, and then,

 _"Air!"_ Steve says, the word heaved out, and James startles and hurries inside, shutting the door behind him. 

Fuck.

_Fuck._

Steve, when James looks after him, is - as he said he would - shuffling into his bedroom. He's wrapped in what looks like a thick, jazzy duvet cover - all bright colors and geometric patterns - and looks like a giant blanket pile as he disappears through the door.

Then the flat's silent, and here's James in the middle of it.

Steve's phone, he sees almost immediately, is on the kitchen counter. He doesn't want to check it - that would be incredibly rude - but it lights up anyway a moment later, so it wouldn't be too bad to look, right? He tiptoes over and takes a look - it's an old model iPhone with a crack spiderwebbing out across the screen, but the notifications still come up. They look _huge_ actually. There’s an email, from a cookie supplier ( _Should have ur cookies..._ ), a couple of WhatsApp messages - one irrelevant one from "Howlies" _(Yeah totally haha. Would...)_ and one from "Natasha." 

_Just rest. I'll get your meds…._

James stares at it where it sits on the counter. The place is dark because the blinds are drawn. Natalia is absolutely going to kill him. He doesn't know what's actually wrong with Steve but like it doesn't exactly sound great. And he....He should leave. But Steve let him in and...

He chews his cheek.

He knows he's fucked up, really he does. 

There’s a couch and an armchair that look decades old, plus a low coffee table with a laptop on it. There’s a flatpack shelving unit with pictures and a metal vase with stars on a little figurine James doesn’t recognize, and some CDs.

There’s a chair, hard and wooden, over towards the kitchen area, which is basically a couple of countertops and some appliances, all shoved over into a corner. There is, he can see, a sink full of dirty dishes. Or, at least, there are two pots and a plate and some cutlery and what looks like a cereal bowl. 

James pulls his phone from his pocket. 

He's got time.

~

James is just drying the second pot when Steve’s phone rings. At least, he thinks it’s ringing - it makes him jump, first of all, and then, when he goes over to look at the caller ID, he sees it’s not a call but an alarm.

An alarm for seven-thirty in the evening. 

He turns the alarm off, first of all, because he doesn’t need that noise, and if _he_ doesn’t need it then Steve _really_ doesn’t need it. But then he starts to wonder if it’s something important. His instincts tell him yes but his instincts have already steered him wrong once. The issue is, though, James sets reminders and notifications and alarms for all kinds of his dad’s stuff. “Meeting this afternoon” ones or “Conference Call Tuesday,” each with little additional notifications like a countdown until the event. 

It’s how James and his father know what’s happening when, and why his dad has such a good reputation for attendance and punctuality, but it means James is programmed - because he’s programmed himself - not to ignore an alarm.

He could text Natalia, but he’s unwilling to bring on his own death, even if he’s well aware just texting Natalia could have prevented this, but he also knows she might not answer, and every second he wastes is another second further from an alarm Steve deliberately set. 

James makes a decision. He boils the water that’s left in the kettle - Steve owns a _kettle_ \- and then he realizes he’s got no next move. He grabs for his phone and tries to Google some stuff but he doesn’t really know what’s wrong with Steve and he doesn’t really know what Steve likes to drink and what might screw up any meds…

Against his better judgment, he opens a couple of Steve’s cupboards. 

He finds dry and tinned goods in one, plates in another (great, he was going to have to figure that out to put the dishes away), a first aid kit and some assorted medication in tupperware boxes in another cupboard, and then, finally, instant coffee and bags of tea and…

Wait, did he see Pedialyte? That’s what you make for people with bad stomachs, right?

He goes back into the medicines and sees he was right, and so he grabs it. Then he makes a coffee. He makes it with some of the soy milk in the refrigerator and puts one teaspoon of sugar in it because Steve hasn’t said anything about being like diabetic or something, and he grabs a glass of water too, puts in a drop of water from the kettle just so it’s more like room temperature. (When he was a kid, he read in Black Beauty that giving the horse cold water made it sick or something, and besides, he’s had cold water when he was sick before, and it’s no comfort, it just gives you brain freeze.) Then he looks around for a tray and puts the small mug and the tumbler of water on a plate when he can’t find one, next to the Pedialyte. 

Then he puts it within arm’s reach on the counter, and stands in front of Steve’s bedroom door. 

He takes a breath.

Probably Steve _and_ Natalia are going to kill him. 

He sighs. It’s okay, he’ll probably deserve it.

When he knocks, nothing happens for a moment. He’s already done this once today, and he knows that, if he wants to get Steve’s attention, he needs to actually do it, and not just be hesitant and quiet which will get him nowhere. But the guy is sick, and his alarm went off, and the least James can do is check. Right? 

“Steve?” he says, and knocks again, and he hears Steve groan from inside the bedroom.

He says something that James doesn’t catch, and then,

 _“What!?”_ and James winces.

“Your alarm went off,” he says, and then there’s a long period of silence.

“What?” he says, much more softly. “What time is it?”

“Seven-thirty,” James answers, and Steve groans softly. 

“Fuck,” he says. “My meds.”

“Can I come in?” James asks. “I-I won’t come in for long but, if you- I brought you somethin’ to drink and, you can. If you want, I can grab your, uh. Meds.”

There’s another pause.

“Pardon?” 

“Can I come in?” James asks, and there’s another pause.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Sorry in advance.”

James frowns and turns the door handle, and -

Oh wow, okay. If Steve hadn’t told him there was something wrong, James would have been able to tell - no man’s bedroom smells fantastic when it’s the size that Steve’s is, but this particular matchbox smells particularly acrid, particularly sour. Steve has definitely thrown up recently, is definitely ill.

“Hold your breath,” Steve says, and Bucky grabs the tray and brings it in.

“Knock it off,” he says. “What meds do you need?”

Steve’s bedroom is small. There’s a rail of clothes, which is at the foot of his slightly-wider-than-single bed, and a flat-pack chest of drawers beside the rail. The bed is pushed up against two walls of the room, with a wire coming out of it near enough where Steve’s head is, and the remaining space between the other wall and the bed is filled by a nightstand with a small desk lamp and a couple of other little things - glasses case, little upside down medicine bottle or something or…maybe the cap from one. There’s one window, on the long side of the room that the bed’s pressed up against, which looks like the kind of box window you get in a bathroom. 

The room is _tiny._

Steve is still being a colorful geometric pile of blankets, but his head emerges, sans glasses or hearing aid, and he squints in James’ direction. James tries _very, very_ hard not to find him unbearably adorable, but he’s one hundred percent certain that the squinting newborn-kitten look Steve has going on right now (complete with fuzzy stubble) is absolutely not ‘ruggedly handsome.’

“There are,” he says, “in the…” He flops out of view again. “Ugh. Bathroom. Box with a big oval on the front. S’ry.”

“You got it,” James says and takes the tray back out with him. 

He’ll sort Steve out with a drink when he gets back. 

He goes to the bathroom and- Okay the bathroom is clean but Steve has very obviously been having a bad time, and James tugs his collar up over his nose and grabs the box with the big blue oval from the-

_Holy shit-_

-chock-full medicine cabinet, Jesus. And then he leaves, and pulls the cord for the fan, and makes sure the door is shut tight behind him. 

He goes back to the bedroom and tries not to trip up over a chair he didn’t know Steve had which he could barely see in the gloom, and he rattles the box as he walks in.

“Got ‘em,” he says. 

“Mm?” Steve answers. “Oh.”

Bucky stands there and looks down at the pile of blankets that is Steve, and scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. 

“Okay, so, how many do you need?”

“Uhhgnn,” Steve answers. “Two.”

James nods, pulls the blister sheets out of the box to check which one’s got capsules already broken, and then gets two tablets out of the pack.

He puts the tablets on the nightstand, and then goes to grab the water from the tray of drinks.

“Come on,” he says softly, and he sits down next to the blanket pile. “Can you sit up?”

“Mh,” Steve answers, which isn’t helpful as far as an answer goes, but he starts to make sitting-up movements .

This isn’t so tough - he had to pull Becca through a couple of bouts of food-poisoning when they were younger. This, at least, he can do.

Steve pushes himself up on unsteady arms and slowly manages to get himself upright, and James keeps a hand out behind him just in case he slips. 

“Hmmm,” Steve says, and the hunches over forwards.

“Ready?” James asks, and Steve nods in a way that suggests he feels like his head weighs about eight time what it usually does. 

“Yeah,” he rasps, and so James hands him the tablets and waits for him to lift his head enough to take them before he holds out the tumbler of water. “Thank you.”

And James keeps his hand near to the bottom of the glass while Steve drinks enough to swallow his medication, his other hand drawing circles on Steve’s damp back absently. 

He takes the glass back when Steve’s decided he can’t have any more, and he puts it on the floor while Steve gets himself lying down again. 

“You throw up any medication past couple days?” James asks him.

Steve’s expression changes a little, maybe surprise that James asked, but he lets his expression fall again soon enough. 

“No,” Steve answers. “Maybe painkillers Wen’sd’y night.”

“You eat at all?” he says.

“Made dry toast,” Steve answers, but he’s mumbling more with every word, and his eyes are already closed.

And then he lies still against his pillow. 

“Listen,” James says, “I know you know yourself but I’m worried about you. Don’t kill me.”

And then he presses his palm to Steve’s forehead. Steve grunts in irritation, but that’s all he does, and he might be clammy but he’s also cold, which eases something in James’ chest. 

If there was a fever, it’s broken already. The best thing for him right now is probably sleep.

***

Natalia arrives at about seven-fifty, and tenses for a second when she sees him, then she frowns, and looks toward Steve’s bedroom.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she says, her voice not quite a whisper. “He’s sick, what are-”

“I didn’t know!” James hisses back. “I’m sorry! He didn’t answer his phone and I panicked, I didn’t know, but he slept through his alarm so I took him his meds and I also washed his dishes please don’t kill me!”

She stands there, looking near enough to disgusted, for a long few seconds. 

“We are not done talking about this,” she says, and there’s no trace of amusement on her features at all.

He really is in trouble.

He doesn't doubt she's got good reason either but he feels a little stung - he was worried, okay? Steve has fuckin' _heart problems_ , what was he supposed to think?

But yeah, he really shouldn't have done what he did. He wouldn't have if he'd known, but he also might have figured it all out for himself if he'd stopped to think for five minutes instead of panicking. He knows he's in the wrong, it's just tough to accept, because he meant well.

"Y'know my Nana used to say the worst thing you could say about someone was that he meant well," he says quietly.

"Your Nana was a smart woman," Natalia answers, crossing the room to the kitchen counters. "You said he took his seven-thirties?"

"Yeah," James nods, and he almost asks what they're for but he's aware it's none of his business. "You know what happened to him?"

She shrugs a shoulder, shakes her head, and puts her carrier bag up on the kitchen counter. There's tupperware in it, a couple of what look like take-out boxes, and a bag from CVS that's stapled at the top that she opens first, and starts disseminating the boxes into different places in the medicine cupboard. 

"It's bug, he's susceptible," she says, and she says it tightly, she isn't going to forgive him easily. 

"Nat, I know I fucked up," he says. "And I'm really sorry."

"It's not me you need to say sorry to-"

"Yeah, I _know_ ," he says, and he goes over to her because he doesn't want to talk too loudly and wake Steve. "I _know._ And I _will_ , but I can't right now so I'm telling _you._ I know you're mad at me and you're right to be mad at me-"

"Why are you still _here_?" she says. "I left the outside door open 'cause I don't have a key for that, and I know you woke him up to get in, but why the fuck didn't you _leave_?"

"He said either stay or go and I panicked!" he hisses.

"Well you wanna panic _less!?"_ she hisses back.

"I know, I'm _sorry!_ " he says through his teeth.

And she locks her jaw but goes back to what she was doing. James takes a step back and breathes for a minute, hands planted on his hips.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" he says, voice as low as possible, and he sees from the way her posture shifts that he's about to get a comeback. "Don't say I've helped enough! I _know_ \- so tell me what I can do to help now."

She takes a deep breath and sighs heavily. 

"There's a laundromat open until midnight on Nugent. Grab his basket and anything else you can find. I'll pay you the cash."

"Don't be insulting, Natalia," James answers. "I'll fucking pay."

He turns around and eases Steve's bedroom door open, sticking his head inside for a moment to make sure he hasn't disturbed Steve. Steve is sleeping like a very unhappy log that’s finding it hard to breathe, and James leans over him to make sure he’s alright but he’s pretty much sleeping in recovery position. 

He grabs the laundry basket and takes it into the living room, and doesn’t see much else he can take with him. There’s a sock, hiding behind the basket but it’s still floppy when James picks it up and so he grabs it and brings it with him. 

“Got a bag or am I takin’ the basket?” he says, and she shrugs.

“Figure it out,” she says.

James will take the basket, but he tries not to grind his teeth.

“How long you gonna keep this up?” he says, and she turns to look at him, eyes narrowed.

“You’ve got no idea what he’s been through,” she says.

He picks up the basket and shakes his head, opening the door.

“Yeah,” James nods. “ ‘Cause none’a you’ll tell me.”

And he remembers _just in time_ not to slam it, using his ass to cushion the blow, and then he staggers down the little stairs to the back door so he go do Steve’s laundry.

~

The thing is, half of everybody in the Hamptons don’t need a laundromat given half of them have guesthouses with washers and dryers in them, and most of those are operated by The Staff. 

James wrinkles his nose a little - he does his own laundry most of the time but that’s still because he’s staying in his parents’ guesthouse and the guesthouse has its own washer dryer. He considers driving home first ‘cause he can see _at least_ lights and darks and it would save him the cost of -

Then he realizes it’s a _laundromat_ and even if it wouldn’t be incredibly convenient to separate three loads into different machines at the same time, which it would, he can afford three separate loads of laundry. 

When he gets there, there’s a good few spaces outside, and so he pulls up and rushes in as though it’s an emergency. Ten minutes later, when he’s sitting with his phone and three machines going (light, dark and colors apparently, although the colors are green, blue, dark green and dark blue). The only thing that’s not in a machine is one crisp, white shirt that James noticed was _hugely_ stained just before he put it in, and then realized the stain was blood. 

He texted Natalia, halfway to horrified, and she responded, 

_Nosebleed._

Which, fine. James will take it home and soak it, he’s got a few party tricks up his sleeve. As in, having attended a few parties, he knows how to get blood out of a white shirt.

He has literally no way to pass the time except to read, given that he raced here with nothing to do. Also, he’s hungry, but he won’t be eating now until the laundry’s done which…it’s going to be a fucking while, damn.

He’s got a couple of unread books on his Kindle app, and he’s halfway through a book about scientific explanations for ‘unexplained’ phenomena, but sitting in a laundromat in the middle of the night is making it kind of hard to think about anything that isn’t sitting in a laundromat in the middle of the night, and then he can’t get away from why he’s there.

He can’t think of anyone else he would have gone speeding towards, except maybe Nat, if he hadn’t heard from them. Although, to be fair, it was over a couple days, it’s not like it just took a couple of hours before he got a text back. 

But even after than, even though he could have been right, he should have checked with Nat. And then, even if she’d been late replying, he’d’ve made an effort to respect Steve’s privacy. He’s torn by it - he knows what he did was wrong, but it was only wrong because he made an assumption that was pretty reasonable. What if Steve really had been hurt? What if Steve really had eaten something he was allergic to?

But instead, he hammered on the door of a guy so sick he could barely stand, and dragged him out of bed for basically nothing. At least he can say he helped with Steve’s meds. Maybe it was just a, like, indigestion thing or whatever, but it could have been important. Steve thought so enough to wake up anyway.

There’s got to be a way of making it up to Steve - doing the laundry probably won’t win him many favors with _Steve_ so much as it might make Nat a little less furious, because he gets the idea Steve would rather be left to his own devices and coddled absolutely not at all.

James has rarely seen Natalia _that protective_ though, it’s not often she’s been quite _that_ pissed at him. She knows Steve better than he does, of course, so there’s probably something he’s missing. 

He scrubs his hand over his face and thinks for a minute. What can he do to make it up to Steve? There’s got to be something he can think of. Or Google. 

He Googles “what to feed someone who’s sick” and gets a good few results he can look at, and then he has a look at “recipes with ginger” and “recipes with rice” and “recipes for sick people” and…

Well, there’s a lot. But once he’s found something that immediately reminds him of something his mom used to make when he was little, he thinks maybe he sees a way forward. Or, at the very least, a place to start.

***

When he gets back to Polaris, laundry done and folded because James thinks it will be easier to handle that way even if it does need to be put back on hangars in most cases, everywhere is closed and silent. The only real sound is that of the distant sea, and James hopes Nat has either left the door open or is still there.

He climbs the steps, just about able to see where he’s putting his feet, and juggles the laundry basket in his arms until he can try the door handle. 

Locked.

He’s trying to figure out if he can knock softly when Natalia opens the door.

“In,” she says, “he has an air filter and-”

“I know,” Bucky says, and tries to get in past her without banging the basket against the door, or walking straight into her. 

He puts the basket down as she’s shutting the door behind him, and stretches once it’s safely on the floor. 

“You get it all done?” she says, and he nods.

“Yeah,” he answers. “Except the white one with the blood. Can I take it with me to soak it?”

“He doesn’t _have_ anything,” she says, incredibly judgmentally, and he stops short.

“What?” he says. “Right? Okay?”

“If that’s what you were worried about,” she says.

“It’s not,” he answers. “I’m asking is he gonna miss it if I take it?”

She shakes her head.

“No.”

“Great,” he answers. “Then I’ll take it home and soak it.”

“Good,” she says, and she goes to sit down on the couch with her laptop. “Bring it back tomorrow any time between two and five, I’ll be here then. Text me and I’ll come let you in.”

James sighs through his nose.

“Natalia, I thought he’d eaten something bad, or missed his medication or something. I thought he was passed out on his bathroom floor bleeding out.”

She clenches her teeth, he can see the muscle jump in her cheek, but she lifts her head and drops her shoulders, and takes a long, slow, deep breath. 

“Next time, you call me,” she says, and it’s not acknowledgement or absolution, but it is a lessening of the vehemence.

“I will,” James says. “But if you don’t answer, I’ll do it again.”

He expects that to make her angry, but instead she gives the same, small huff of laughter that Steve often gives.

“Good,” she says. 

And James narrows his eyes at the back of her head. 

“You can’t tell me what he’s been through,” he says, “can you?” and she turns her head back and looks at him.

“No.”

“Can you tell me what he’s allergic to?” 

And her carefully sculpted eyebrows come down.

“What?” she says. “Why?”

“Because in Russia you say you’re sorry with food,” James answers, and she rolls her eyes. “I know wheat, gluten and dairy.”

“Just in Russia?” she says. “You’re right except he can’t have _lactose,_ so he steers clear of dairy ‘cause it’s easier. He’s also got some sensitivity around some food colorants and stabilizers, but I only know that because I’ve been grocery shopping with him.”

James frowns.

“Do you know what they are?”

She shakes her head.

“No. Sometimes he picks up a box and goes ‘aw’ and puts it back but he only says ‘colorants’ or ‘stabilizers’ when I ask. Also he shouldn’t have alcohol, and like a lot of greens have shit that interferes with some of his heart meds.”

“Right,” James says, and tries not to shiver with the knowledge that eating his greens might kill him. “Carrots and onions okay? Corn?”

She nods.

“Yeah,” she says. “He has a lot of substitutes made from corn. Loves Mexican so he’d be pretty pissed if he couldn’t.”

“Okay,” he says. “Good. You need anything?”

She shakes her head.

“No,” she answers. “But if you wanna bring soy milk with you tomorrow, that’d save me the run.”

“Sure,” James says. 

He looks around the small flat, then at Natalia, then he nods to himself.

Alright then.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says.

“Drive safe,” she answers, in a tone that suggest she doesn’t care, which is how he knows she means it, and James goes home to soak Steve’s bloody shirt.

***

James goes out first thing Saturday morning.

He grabs soy milk, and then chicken breasts, and then carrots and white onions and an ear of corn. Then he considers celery, except he knows ‘celery’ is often listed as an allergen, so he’ll have to skip it. When he gets to grabbing some stock, he knows he has to be careful, because there’s all kind of…amazing ingredients in…

You know what? Fuck it. 

He goes back to the meats and puts the chicken breast back, and then he grabs a whole chicken instead. He’ll make his own goddamn broth. 

He double checks, and triple checks, and then checks twice at checkout _as well_ to make sure the rice noodles he’s picked up are definitely rice, and definitely not mixed with anything, and then he drives home. It’s a Saturday, so his dad will be golfing and his mom will probably be reading or gardening, or maybe making music somewhere in the house. 

When he was little, sometimes, she’d pull down her jewelry boxes and he’d sit on the bed with Becca, and their mom would go through each piece and tell them where it came from, who gave it to her, what the story was behind it. They used to call it ‘looking at treasures’ and James thinks to himself that he’ll have to ask her to do it again sometimes. He only remembers the millefiori pendant she got on honeymoon, and one of the necklaces passed down from his grandmother. 

There is something else he needs from her this morning, however, and the first is so incredibly embarrassing that he doesn’t really want to ask.

“Mom?” he says, and she’s reading so it’s not too much of an effort to put her book down, thank God - the last thing he wants to do is put her out. “Uh, how do you cook a chicken?”

Her eyebrows raise, and her mouth opens a little, but she laughs quietly and shakes her head.

“Come on,” she says, standing up. “I’ll show you. How old are you, you can’t cook a bird?”

“Ma,” James says, but he’s mainly just embarrassed because it’s right.

“What are you cooking a chicken for?” she asks and then, hopeful. “Is it for us?”

James winces.

“Mostly,” he says. “But I know a guy who’s been sick the last couple days and I thought-”

“Oh, Nana’s chicken soup!” she says. “Great plan! I’ll grab the recipe.”

***

They cook the chicken. When it’s done, his mom shows him how to carve it - he basically knew, it’s not hard, but he doesn’t want to choke Steve on a chicken bone - and then he puts the bones into hot water for a stock with some of the vegetables. It’s not great, he can’t stew it for hours and hours and hours like the recipe wants, but it’ll be good enough.

He skims the fat off the top and puts it in a separate pan, because the article he got the idea from said fats weren’t great for a stomach sensitive from a stomach bug, and then he sets about making Nana’s chicken soup, because there never was anything better for him than Nana’s chicken soup.

~

The drive to Steve’s is not far at all, and he texts Natalia once he’s pulled up around back. She texts him back with “ok” a couple of seconds later, and then he has to figure out how to hold a pressed-shirt-on-a-hanger and a big container full of chicken soup and still somehow open a door and climb a flight of stairs. 

He’s considering holding the hook of the hanger in his mouth when Natalia opens the back door.

“Come on,” she says, and then frowns at him, looks first at the shirt and then at the soup. 

“Oh,” he says. “Can you take the shirt?”

She does.

“Milk’s in the car,” he says, and her expression clears again as he goes back for it.

By the time Nat’s letting them into Steve’s flat, Bucky’s wondering what excuse he can give to try and stick around and maybe see Steve again except, when they walk in, Steve the Blanket Mountain is on the couch, with his hands wrapped around something that’s steaming enough to partially cloud his glasses.

“Hey,” he rasps, lifting his head. 

“Uh,” Bucky says. “Hi.” And then he lifts his hands. “I brought you stuff.”

Steve doesn’t smile but he doesn’t frown either, watching James walk across the little flat and puts the soy milk down on the counter, puts the big tub of soup down next to it.

When he turns around, Steve’s looking at Nat with a question in his eyes, and she’s shaking her head.

“I brought chicken soup,” James says, and Steve’s gaze flicks towards him, then at the tub, then back to James.

“Whose?” he says very quietly.

James smiles.

“My Nana’s,” he says, and Steve’s glances at Nat this time. 

He looks hopeful, so James really starts to pray he’s got this right.

“What’s in it?” Steve asks, and James turns around and pulls the lid off the tub.

“Chicken, chicken stock, onions, corn, carrots, and noodles,” he says, and then tugs the packet for the noodles out of his jacket pocket. “Nat?”

Nat comes over and takes it from him, and then passes it to Steve.

Steve takes it carefully and reads the back.

“Oh,” he says. 

“And I made the stock from the chicken bones,” James says. “Pulled off some fat ‘cause, Internet says it’s bad for unsettled stomachs, but I took a look at the stocks in the store and I just…I had no idea what you could have so I made my own.”

Steve blinks down at the package in his hand, and then looks up at James.

“Whose corn?” he asks, and James shakes his head.

“It’s not tinned,” he says, and Steve looks at him, mouth open, eyes wide, and then back at the container. “I bought it on the cob and stripped it.”

“You made chicken soup for me?” he says. And then, very quietly, “That I can eat?”

James frowns and reaches for the cupboard with the crockery in it.

“What would be the point of making chicken soup you couldn’t eat?” he says. “I made plenty, so you can have some for a bit - it’ll keep for a day or so.”

“No, come on,” Steve says. “Can you have some? Aren’t you-”

“That’s okay,” Nat says. “I bought some take-out yesterday, James and I can eat that.”

And Steve just looks thoroughly surprised by the whole thing.

“Why?” he says eventually, like he can’t understand it, and James turns around and looks at him.

“Because I dragged you outta bed when you were sick,” he says, “and ‘cause I’d like you to feel better.”

Steve just blinks at him a few times, and so James goes back to serving up a bowl of chicken soup for Steve. 

“Wow,” he hears Steve mutter, and his heart un-squeezes just a little. 

“Hey, do you have any like, allergy bread?” James asks. “I hear dry bread’s good for a bad stomach.”

“God, you sound just like my mother,” Steve chuckles. “Yeah, it’s in the cupboard under the tins, over the left hand side.”

~

“…and so there’s gonna be a good three days I can’t sell,” Steve says, leaning back into the couch. “God that was good.”

“Why?” James says, and reaches out for Steve’s bowl as he rises from the couch, putting a hand out to Nat as she moves to stand. “I’ll get ‘em. Surely you could sell today’s?”

“Nah,” Steve says. “Food laws and whatnot. I can’t even give away was in the fridge for Thursday - I could’ve sent it out for the homeless shelter but I, y’know.”

“You were unconscious,” Nat says. “So that’s enough feeling guilty about that one.”

Steve sighs.

“So that’s all gonna go out. And then there’s no profits for today but at least that shit’s still in the freezer.”

Bucky frowns. 

“Uh,” he says. “Sorry - how long is the sandwich stuff good for?” he asks, and Steve shrugs a shoulder. 

“Well, I mean,” he says, “It has to go. It’s probably good for a day or two but I can’t sell it. I’d be happy to eat it except I can’t eat it.”

“I can buy some,” James says. “Right? Do they freeze?”

Steve just looks at him, mouth open, for a second. 

“Uh,” Steve says. “I guess some of them freeze? But I literally can’t sell them to you, I had to have ‘em out Thursday. I could have sent ‘em out Thursday night but I can’t do it today.”

“Well I’m not gonna buy all of ‘em,” James says. “And don’t you got some of those allergen ones that you have in there as well? What’s gonna happen to those?” 

Steve sucks his teeth for a moment and then looks down.

“I,” he says slowly, “am…going to eat them.”

Nat chuckles, and James shrugs.

“Well I’m just saying, I know you open the café or you don’t, like I know there’s nobody to take over. But if you’re gonna keep some of those pastries, can’t I grab some bagels and freeze ‘em?”

“You shouldn’t,” Steve answers, but Nat sits forward.

“I told you,” she says. “I said this to you last time, come on, you can tell us which ones, right?”

“Natasha, you don’t even have a _job_ right now-”

“I’ve got another interview on Monday,” she says. “And I need to be well fed for it. Plus, I got at least two mouths to feed, and Tim’ll eat anything, you know that.””

“Yeah,” James says, “and my mom and dad are huge baked good fans.”

Steve takes a deep breath and looks between the two of them. James can see that he’s being worn down about it. 

“Well listen,” James says. “I fully intend to buy a _lot_ of coffee from you in the next few days ‘cause there’s a ton I want to try off your menu and I haven’t had my fix since, what, Wednesday?”

He looks at Nat, and she nods.

“Wednesday,” she says. 

“I’m just saying, if you want to sell me a cooler of bagels-”

“Jesus Christ, Bucky, a _cooler_?”

 _“Bucky?”_ Nat says, and then guffaws.

“What?” Steve says. “Wait, do you not-”

“No, _you_ get to call me Bucky,” Bucky says preemptively, pointing at Steve. “And I’m now really looking forward to bagels, when can I pick ‘em up?” 

Steve rubs his hand over his mouth and looks at Natalia. 

“I really can’t,” he says. “I really can’t.”

“Well how about this,” Nat says. “James and I will take some of your stock because you can’t sell it and we’ll get rid of it for you. And then we’ll venmo some money to you for our friendship subscription.”

“Yeah,” James says. “Friendship subscription. For like y’know, me and my parents. All three of us.”

Steve puts his head in his hands.

“Steve, I know you,” Nat says. “If we pay you for the food, that’s illegal. If we take the food and give you money, that feels like charity. But let me put it this way.” He lifts his head and looks at her. “We’re buying up good stock you should have been able to sell because you would have sold it if you’d been able to open.”

Steve winces and rubs his hand over his mouth again.

“It is really good stock,” James says, and Steve nods.

“It is,” he says. “It is good stock.”

“And it’d go to waste otherwise,” Nat says.

Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip and stares at the wall for a long few seconds. 

“I legally can’t,” he says, and Nat rolls her eyes.

“Wait,” James says. “Hold on - my parents are holding this like, event thing?” 

“What?” Natalia says, and James nods.

“Yeah, I just remembered - my parents are holding a thing and I just remembered - it’s tonight and we need food for it and I totally forgot to buy any.” Steve just looks at him. “And the stuff from your freezer won’t defrost in time. So could you do me a favor? Like as a friend? And I’ll venmo you some cash for your trouble.”

Steve looks very tired.

“That’s not true,” he says.

“I,” James answers, “would like you to prove it.”

Steve takes another long few seconds to think about it, and then he looks at Nat. Then he closes his eyes and sighs.

“Everything tagged with Thursday’s date,” he says.

Nat smiles, gets up, and goes to walk past him, but not before bending to press a kiss to his forehead. 

“Attaboy,” she says, and Steve draws a very deep breath and lets it out slowly. “Come on, James. I need your help with the cooler.”

***

“Okay,” Nat says once her payment goes through. “It’s about time we headed off, you need some rest. You’re staying closed tomorrow, right?”

Steve heaves a sigh.

“Yes, Natasha, I’m staying closed tomorrow.”

“Good,” James says. “You work too hard anyway.”

Natalia nods.

“Yeah well,” Steve says, “Can’t imagine the Health Inspector’d be too happy if I opened up on a stomach bug.”

“How’d you even get it?” James asks, and they both look at him. “I mean, you’re so fuckin’ careful all the time.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, eyebrows going up in the epitome of a weary expression. “One of the Grandmas came in and ordered and she licked the bills to count ‘em and, I mean I have gloves but. She was tellin’ me about this seafood place that gave her food poisoning and I just…I thought about the place - I’ve been there, it’s... Well, somebody _took_ me there, it’s a nice place but, if it’d given somebody food poisoning the whole neighborhood’d know. But she was tellin’ me this and then she told me about her sick grandkid and didn’t even put two and two together. She just. Caught a bug from her grandkid or somethin’ and it was almost closing and…I took my gloves off to cash out. She passed it on to me.”

“That’s all it takes?” James says very softly, and Steve shrugs one shoulder.

“That’s all,” he says. “You two should be more careful than you are, either of you could have it now.”

“Nah, I’m _robust_ ,” James says, puffing up his chest, and then he jerks his head towards Nat. “And it wouldn’t dare go after her.” 

“Besides, _золотце_ ,” she says, standing, “you’re more important.”

And she walks past him and starts to pick up her stuff - laptop, phone, no chargers for either, and James takes a minute to figure out why until he thinks of all the times he asked to plug shit in at his college friends’ places and got _fuck yeah, dude, I ain’t payin’ the bill_ in response. 

“I’m gonna come by on Monday,” James says, getting up too, “make sure you’re okay-”

“No, hold on a minute,” Steve says, his voice low, and Natalia pauses.

“Me too?” she says, and Steve shakes his head - James tries not to be surprised, but it figures. 

He still has an apology to make after all.

Natalia doesn’t make anything of it, and leaves a moment later, closing the door behind her. 

_“Bye, Steve!”_ she calls through the door.

“Bye!” he answers, hoarsely, and then he turns to James. “Sit down,” Steve says. “Please.”

James glances at the door and then rubs his palms on his thighs as he sits. 

“Sure,” he says. 

There are a couple of seconds of silence, during which blanket Steve is busy staring at him. 

“Look I’m sorry,” James says. “I know I shouldn’t’ve raced over here and banged on your door-”

“Bucky,” Steve says, but James holds up a hand.

“No, I shouldn’t have,” he says. “I could’ve called Nat, and I also shouldn’t just run up to your front door and-”

“Thought I was dead in the bathtub or somethin’, huh?”

James tilts his head a little, finds it difficult to make eye-contact.

“Somethin’ like that, yeah,” he says.

“Well, lucky for both of us, I don’t have a bathtub,” and James laughs but he stills feel like a total heel. “Listen, I asked you to stay because I want to say a couple things. First, apology accepted - I was an asshole because I was sick-”

“What?”

“-but I was still an asshole.”

“No, wait,” James says, “I hammered on your door when you were sick!”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve chuckles, “but you did it ‘cause you thought I was in trouble, and that was sweet of you.”

“But-”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he looks pained, and that’s fair because he’s been sick since Wednesday night, so James shuts up. “Apology accepted. Okay?”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. 

“What I wanted to tell you is a couple things because I…” Steve looks over at his kitchen, at the wall, anywhere that isn’t James. “I really like you,” James tries not to look shocked and tries not to yell _really_ and tries to sit quietly and listen. “And you’ve been really good about not pushing me to tell you shit and. Like if. You’re still interested-”

“I’m still interested,” James says, “uh. Sorry, I can shut up for more than ten seconds, I promise.”

Steve smiles slowly, and looks down.

“I told you I got a lot wrong with me,” he says. “First, I’m amazed you’re still into me considering what you’ve had to deal with the last couple’a days - even _I_ can smell me and I can barely breathe half the time.”

Bucky smiles a little.

“I gotta warn you, I’m…” Steve takes a deep breath and sighs. “I’m sick a lot. Like a _lot,_ it’s a miracle this is the first time since you’ve met me, and it affects a hell of a lot. And there’s stuff my medication affects.”

James doesn’t get it. Steve is looking at him with raised eyebrows and half a wince and James is lost. Steve gives him a few more seconds to get it, and James doesn’t get it.

“You…can’t eat…wheat?”

“I can’t always get it up, Bucky,” he says, and then really looks like he’s about to wince and like. 

Oh. 

Well. 

But.

“I mean do you want kids?” James asks, because that’s why that would be most relevant, right? And then the words register in his own head and he puts his head in his hands. “Oh Jesus.”

Steve is wheezing in a way that suggests he’s amused.

“Listen, if that’s your biggest concern, this is gonna be easier than I thought.”

“I used to be a good flirt,” James says, and lifts his head to look at Steve. “I swear to you, I was _so_ suave.”

Steve is a pile of blankets, and a pair of very big glasses on a very slender, _very attractive_ face, mouth tugged up at one side.

“You’re incredibly attractive,” James says, and Steve’s eyebrows come in immediately, his mouth opening - it looks like surprise this time, rather than irritation, fingers crossed. “Wait so, how’re you gonna top me- Wait.” James holds up his hands. “You like….like ever? You can’t get hard at all?”

“Sometimes,” Steve clarifies, easily, as though he’s not embarrassed by it. Assertive, which is kind of a turn-on. Man James has it bad. “It’s not all the time, not even nearly, but it’s often enough that you oughta know.”

James frowns.

“Uh,” he says. “Okay but…”

And James isn’t sure what Steve _thinks_ he’s gonna say, but he interjects with,

“I’m good with my hands, and I’m good with my mouth, and I’ve got plenty of things in my bedside cabinet if you don’t like either of those. But I’m giving you the chance to get out now.”

James wonders if he looks as incredulous as he feels even while all the blood rushes downward - Steve has a very intense 

“What?” he laughs. “Did you- What are we, _twelve? No,_ I don’t need to get out, why would even-” it occurs to him instantly and he changes track just as fast “-because it mattered to someone else.” And sits back, suddenly not finding it funny at all. “No,” he says, and then he says it again. “No, I don’t need to _’get out,_ Steve, no. No. I was gonna ask, if you couldn’t at all, whether there’d be other stuff I could do for you. That’s all. I’m an adult, I can handle a little erectile dysfunction, ‘specially if you know what’s causing it, okay? Like if we don’t have to worry about you.”

Steve cocks his head like he’s not sure James is serious.

“Jesus, Steve, if I say I don’t feel like it one night are you gonna break up with me?” he says.

“A’right,” Steve says softly, the corner of his mouth pulling upward, “okay. But I wanted to tell you because I don’t know anybody else who remembered I had eating issues first time they tried to feed me something, except other people I know with allergies.”

James wrinkles his nose.

“I,” he confesses, “I asked Nat.”

“Ahuh,” Steve nods. “She told me. Thing is, _you_ asked _her._ Which means you remembered enough to ask.”

“Steve-”

“I’m saying I’d like to go out with you,” he says. “Or at least, I’m saying I’d like to date you. I’m not really much for goin’ out right now.”

James is about to object some more when Steve’s words actually register.

“You are?” he says.

“If you can deal with my dick after this goddamn disaster,” he says, pointing around the flat, “then yeah. I’d like to give it a shot.”

James just looks at him for a long few seconds, and can feel how widely he’s smiling, 

“Really?” he says, and Steve looks halfway between amused and bemused. 

“Yeah?” he nods. “If you-”

“Can I kiss you now?” James asks, and Steve rears back with a laugh.

“No!” he says. “No, not until I’m over this bug.”

“Nat kissed you,” James counters.

“Nat kissed my _head_ , and she didn’t ask first,” he says. “Come in on your lunch break on Monday. And tell your parents to enjoy their party.”

James nods.

“Sure!” he says, and stands up. “Sure!” And then he grabs the cooler. “I will see you on Monday. And like, call me if you need something,” he says, because he doesn’t want to outstay his welcome just in case Steve changes his mind.

Except, as he’s trying to step away, Steve reaches out and snags his wrist.

“Thank you,” he says and, when James looks down at him, Steve’s jaw is clenched and his eyes are shut. “I’m trying to say thank you, for doing my laundry, and takin’ my surplus, and for making soup I can actually _eat_ ,” here he opens his eyes, “which is _delicious,_ ” and then he looks up at James as he lets go of James’ sleeve, “and for comin’ to check on me. Doesn’t matter that Nat knew - you didn’t know she knew, and you were worried. And I appreciate it. So thank you.”

James reaches out - he can do this, right, dating? They’re dating? - and brushes the backs of his fingers over Steve’s cheek just briefly, feeling one or two of the wiry blond hairs Steve doesn’t have the energy to shave.

“Anytime,” he says quietly. “I’ll see you Monday.”

“Monday,” Steve says. 

James picks up the cooler, and then he leaves, closing Steve’s door behind him.

He walks down the stairs, out the back door, and it catches shut - though he tries it once just to make sure it’s locked. 

He puts the cooler in the back, behind the passenger seat, and waits until he’s in the driver’s seat to airpunch and whoop a little. Then he reaches back to open the cooler and grab a bagel because those bagels are pretty damn _good!_


	2. Chapter 2

“Do I get to call you stuff now?” James asks as he walks in and Steve, who’s busy cleaning the espresso machine, doesn’t even turn around. “Sugarpie, Honeybunch?”

“How ‘bout ‘Sir’ or ‘Chef,’ ” he says, and then he turns around and sees the look on James’ face and barks out a laugh. “Whoa, okay, just ‘Chef.’ ”

“Spoilsport,” James says, leaning heavily on the counter like he did on that first day. 

Steve puts a drink on the counter, and James looks at it.

“Is that mine?”

“No, that’s mine,” Steve says, but he’s _biting back a smile_ despite the circles under his eyes, and it’s making James feel all fluttery on the inside. “Yours is once the water’s up to temp, it’s givin’ me problems right now.”

“I could give you problems right now,” James says, and Steve laughs.

“Alright, that’s enough, don’t make me rescind my offers. How was the party on Saturday?”

“Party?” James says and then, _fuck_. “Was. Great.”

Steve stares at him for a long few seconds, and then snorts, and drops his chin to his chest, narrow shoulders quaking. 

“Nice save,” he says, and goes back to the espresso machine. “What’s the senator having this morning?” 

“I would like,” he says, “an espresso shot.”

Steve turns back again and frowns.

“Short and bitter?” James says. “No?”

“You jerk,” he chuckles. “What do you _actually_ want?”

“Oh, you pick,” he says, and watches Steve shake his head slowly, like _okay, buddy, you asked for it,_ before he steps down and gets to work. 

“I’d like a bagel, too,” James tells him, and Steve makes a noise that James _thinks_ is a laugh, and sounds like,

 _“Tschuh!”_ and then says, “Don’t you got enough’a those?”

“My parent’s ate ‘em all at the party we definitely had,” he says. “And we put the spares in the freezer for next time you’re closed and I’m hungry.”

Steve laughs openly this time, and the machine makes some loud, obnoxious noises while he makes James’ coffee. Steve yawns at it.

Steve hands James the coffee cup and grabs him a bagel, and James passes his card over the reader. 

“Got it, receipt?” Steve says, automatically.

“I’d prefer a kiss,” James answers. 

“Well it’s a shame this isn’t the third date and I’m working, then, huh?” 

James takes a sip of his whatever-Steve-made and-

“Oh, _damn_ , you oughta do this for a living!” James says, and Steve shuts his eyes and shakes his head. He’s still smiling - James hasn’t seen him this happy since the restaurant with his other friends. “So third date and I get to kiss you?” 

“Let’s say third date for now, huh?” he says. “Subject to change.”

“Time off for good behavior?” James asks, and Steve points at James’ coffee.

“More drinky less talky,” he says, and James snorts a laugh for himself, too.

***

Bucky picks him up on Friday, and makes sure he’s ten minutes early for the time Steve gave him. This means he gets to see when Steve comes down his steps, black skinny jeans, satchel, pashmina, glasses, beanie, except this time he’s got on a red plaid shirt and a blue jacket, and he looks damn good in it.

“Hey,” Bucky says as Steve emerges.

“Hi,” Steve grins, and he turns to lock the door behind him before he turns back. “You ready?”

“Oh, am I ready?” James says. “Am I ready to take my boyfriend out on a date?”

Steve laughs.

“Just don’t go tellin’ everyone,” he says. “Nat knows but-”

“What?” James says, cocking his head as he laughs. “Don’t tell anyone?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Maybe when we leave.”

“Oh,” James says. “You…Uh. Okay?”

Steve’s smile fades a little.

“You don’t wanna tell ‘em?” Steve says.

“No I was thinking I _wanted_ to tell ‘em, _all_ of ‘em” James says. “I told my mom and dad?”

Steve pulls a face and then looks down. He looks very tired.

“I,” he says, and rolls his head toward his shoulder in a weird, awkward kind of shrug. “I just…don’t want them to make a big deal of it.” 

And then he looks at James as though this explains everything. James frowns at him.

“Lemme ask you something, do you not want them to know you’re dating, or do you not want them to know you’re dating _me_?”

“What?” Steve says, and then his eyebrows go up. “No!” He says. “I mean, the- I don’t want them to know I’m _dating_ ,” he says. 

“Okay,” James answers. “Why?”

Steve’s expression pinches immediately, as though he hadn’t expected James would ask. Slowly his betrayed expression closes up, his brows come down, his jaw clenches.

“It took me a long time to get over the last guy,” he says, like a challenge. 

“The jail guy?” James counters, and Steve’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Okay. So you don’t want them to know you’re dating because…?”

“Because they’ll make a huge deal out of it!” Steve answers. “Either they’ll be way more over-invested than they have any right to be, or they’ll want to know the minutia of every decision I made to get to this point, or they’ll make jokes and poke fun and I’m not ready for that, it’s none of their business, Bucky.”

James takes a step back, and then takes a deep breath, and then holds up both hands.

“Hear me out,” he says, and Steve crosses his arms over his chest. “Your ex is a criminal, they want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I’m aware,” Steve answers. “They don’t have a good track record for stopping at ‘safe.’ I don’t want to spend the whole night explaining to them why I made each decision and defending the two of us.”

“Okay,” James says. 

Steve takes a second, then looks confused.

“What?” he says. 

“Okay,” James repeats. “That’s a good reason.”

Steve just blinks at him.

“It is?” he says. “I mean, it is, but, you agree?”

James shrugs.

“Yeah,” he says. “I don’t want everybody asking questions and, if you think they will, we’ll keep it to ourselves for a little bit. I just wanted to know _why._ “

“Oh,” Steve says. 

“Yeah,” James nods. “So no hand-holding?”

Steve laughs, and James laughs too even though he was only half-kidding.

“Come on,” Steve says. “If we’re late we’ll never hear the end of it.”

And James resigns himself to just walking very near to Steve as they head on down to the restaurant. 

~

They go, they have fun, they spend most of their meal talking and laughing in much the same way that they did the first time James went with Steve to hang out on Friday night, but they leave before dessert.

“I gotta go,” Steve yawns. “I’m still not feelin’ too great, you know?”

“Be safe,” Nat tells him, and James gets up too.

“I’ll walk you back,” he says, then looks at Nat. “Yeah?”

She narrows her eyes a little.

“Acceptable,” she says, and the two of them say their goodnights. 

“Subtle,” Steve says, once they’re back out into cool night air, and James laughs.

“They know I have a thing for you, why would I pass it up? You really wanting to go back?”

“No,” Steve says, puts his hand up over his mouth. “No, I just. I thought we could go for a walk, you know? Just along the water.” Then he laughs. “Until I get too cold.”

James laughs with him, pushes his hands into his pockets. 

“Sure,” he says. “We could get icecream?”

Steve gives him a _look._

“I can’t eat ice-cream,” he says.

“I know,” James says, “I was think’ maybe they got ice pops or sorbet?” but it’s a lie - he forgot, and he’s pretty sure Steve knows. There’s silence for another few moments. “No,” James says. “I forgot.”

“That’s okay,” Steve says, a little stiffly, “but I need you to know, it’s not an intolerance, it’s an allergy. If I have lactose, my throat will close up. Sucks to high heaven given that most pills have lactose in their coatings but there we are.”

“Jeeeesus,” Bucky says quietly. “Okay. So how do you use an epi pen?” 

Steve laughs, tucks his chin down into his pashmina.

“I have a trainer at home,” he says. “I’ll show you if you want but it’s…Pretty simple. Take it outta the case, hold it in your fist-” and he shows James a fist, as though he’s just grabbed somebody by the shirt “-and the orange end’s goin’ into me so you take off the blue cap and then-” he brings his fist down and pushes it into the middle of the outside of his thigh “-push in and hold for ten. The FDA just changed it to three but-” he shakes his head. “I mean call me paranoid but…”

“Ten,” James says. “I got it.”

Steve nods.

“Ahuh, then you take it back, and massage the area for another ten to help it integrate.”

James nods.

“Got it. I’ll look it up on YouTube, too.”

Steve laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “And then call an ambulance, and then call Nat.” And then he sighs. “And then write a check.”

James winces.

“If I ever call you an ambulance, I’ll cover it.”

“Fuck off,” Steve answers, but he’s laughing. 

They walk a little way, and James reaches out a hand towards him and then doesn’t know if he should touch him.

“Go on,” Steve chuckles. “I don’t mind.”

James was just going to put his hand against the small of Steve’s back, but Steve sicks out his elbow for James to take. And so he does, why not? Hooks his arm through Steve’s and settles his other hand on Steve’s elbow. 

The moon is up, which is lovely, but it means the heat’s leaving the ground pretty fast. 

“I don’t think,” Steve says, very slowly, “that I want to be having sex in the immediate future.”

James looks down at him, nods a little.

“Okay,” he says, and Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip. 

“Because I…have reasons,” he says.

“That’s fine,” James says. “You said third date for a kiss and you got a boyfriend in jail, we can take it slow.”

Steve sighs audibly, and James knows he’s missing something. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he says, and they walk a few steps together, feet sinking in the sand.

“I do,” Steve says. “I should. My…he…the ex that I…”

“Yeah,” James says softly as they walk, and he doesn’t look at Steve because he imagines whatever it is is pretty tough. 

And Steve shakes his head, shrugs a shoulder. 

“Nat stayed with me when she first got back,” he says.

“What, from Russia?” James asks, and Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “She worked with me in the café a little, just on weekends. She was out lookin’ for work most of the time but she’d, uh. I gave her a key so she could get in and…Okay so he once fed me something I shouldn’t have but that could have been an accident. It wasn’t one’a the…I wouldn’t have needed the pen.”

James feels himself slowing down, and Steve stops as he does, to turn and look at him.

“What?” he says. “On purpose?”

“Ah, I…” Steve says, and he pulls his arm away, shakes his head as he looks out at the sea. There’s a weariness that isn’t all down to working seven days a week without a gap. “I don’t know. Probably, but I don’t know for sure. He was always- It- Probably. You know? But…”

He shakes his head, shrugs one shoulder. 

“He was very, _very_ bad for me,” he says. “And Nat’s the one who…” He looks down. “Uhm.”

“You don’t _have_ to tell me,” James says. “I want to know but you don’t _have_ to.”

“He tried to, uhm,” Steve says, frowning as he looks down at his hands, and there’s something about it, something that James understands from the way Steve’s speaking.

“Did he?” he asks, hoping he’s misunderstood.

“No,” Steve answers. “He pushed me and I hit my head but I’d texted Nat when he came home angry and she…found him over me. I was- He didn’t get- Like…”

Steve winces, and takes a breath, and takes a step back - James lets him take the space he needs.

“When I didn’t answer her texts, she came and let herself in and I was trying to get him off me,” he says. Then he looks a little less concerned, a little more nonchalant. “I was still, y’know, dressed and everything.” The hair on the back of James’ neck stands on end. Steve looks away again. “But he…if Nat hadn’t come in when he did…I mean, _look_ at me,” he says, and then he looks at James. “I couldn’t’ve stopped him.”

James holds up both hands and reaches towards him because he’d like to put his hands on Steve’s upper arms, but then he doesn’t. 

“You can,” Steve says softly, and he looks exhausted, half-terrified.

“I want to hug you,” James says. “Can I do that too?”

Steve’s weariness doesn’t dissipate, but the corner of his mouth lifts for a second.

“Yeah,” he says, barely more than a whisper, and so James puts both hands on Steve’s upper arms, and then slides one onto his back as he steps forward against Steve. 

Steve, much to James’ surprise, steps forward to meet him in the middle, and presses his face into Bucky’s neck. He actually just _fits_ there, given James is six feet and Steve’s about eight inches shorter than him. Steve’s nose is cold and his glasses are very pointy, but his arms fit under James’ arms and around his torso like they were made to, and James’ arm spans the width of Steve’s back like that’s where it belongs. When he strokes Steve’s spine with his other palm, he can feel Steve melt against him and it’s such a strange feeling to get from Steve. 

Steve doesn’t push, doesn’t shove his way against James, he just _fits_ , and goes very, very still once he does. There’s a point of bright chill against James’ collar bone that he realizes is Steve’s labret piercing a moment later, and James rests his cheek against the top of Steve’s head.

It feels as though they don’t move for a long time. Steve breathes slowly, and stands quietly, and James wonders if Steve can hear his heart beating as loudly as it does in his own ears. 

“She nearly killed him,” Steve says very softly, and James opens his eyes.

He didn’t know he’d closed them, but he had done, and now he’s looking down the beach, past all the little sparkly lights of places open late, waves coming up on the beach, moonlight turning everything past the waves to a silvery blue. 

“I wish she had,” he answers, and Steve draws one of his long, slow breaths, deeply enough that it makes James’ hand slip a little on the fabric of Steve’s jacket. 

“What I was going to ask,” Steve says, and he lifts his head and leans a little way back to look James in the eye, “was that, even though I don’t want sex, not yet - I want to know you better-”

“Of course,” James says, shaking his head, and he tucks his fingers under Steve’s chin, strokes the side of Steve’s jaw with his thumb. “Of course.”

“I would quite like it if you let me make you a coffee.” James feels his eyebrows rise. “No funny stuff,” Steve reiterates, with some very impressive Mom-eyebrows, and James chuckles, and lets him go.

“I promise,” he says. “If you want, you can text Nat that you’re with me, give her a check-in time.”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.” And then he offers his arm again. “Shall we?”

James takes it.

“We shall,” he says, and Steve laughs.

It’s a clear sound, though low and rich, and seems somehow lighter than it did before. 

~

“Go on through,” Steve says as he unlocks the back door of the café with one hand, tapping away with his phone in the other. 

James steps through and goes on, and hears an intermittent beeping noise as he does, and turns to ask, but Steve’s pulling a panel off the wall and then standing between James and it. James turns away just in case he sees accidentally. Alarm, right, that makes sense. 

“It’s linked to a light upstairs,” Steve says. “I keep it on my nightstand.”

“Ohh,” James says - that will have been the little upside-down medicine bottle looking thing.

Steve locks up behind them and then opens another little door, near to the one he’d take to get up to his flat, and reaches in to flick some switches. 

Two lights in the whole place come on - one over the bar and one at James’ usual table, about halfway down the cafe, in a corner, opposite the bar. James likes it because he gets a direct line of sight to Steve. Right now, he’ll be the only one with it, too - all the blinds are down. It’s just him and Steve. 

“What’ll it be?” Steve asks. 

“Surprise me,” James answers. “I trust you.”

Steve laughs, pulls on a pair of gloves, and starts flicking machine switches. He ducks out of sight for a second and comes back with a cinnamon roll on a plate. 

“You want this warm?” he says, and James tries not to gawp.

“Uhm,” he answers. “Yes please?”

There must be a microwave down behind there, if the next set of noises is any indication. 

“Ask me next time,” Steve says, when his head and shoulders reappear over the countertop, and he brings the plate around to Bucky, shedding his pashmina while he’s there. “It’s like fifteen seconds, no big.”

By the time he goes back over, whatever he switched on is good and ready, and he starts clattering about behind the counter. James just watches him move about. He seems in his element, really - James never thought about it before, but it’s true. This doesn’t seem like a job he hates. 

At least, he doesn’t hate doing it now, for James. 

It only takes him a minute or two, and then he comes around the counter with two cups - one is topped with whip and marshmallows, and one…well, one definitely looks like it was made longer ago. The cream is a little saggy, and moves around a lot more which would suggest that the liquid is thinner, and the marshmallows look a little more compact. 

James reaches out for it the saggy one.

“That’s very gentlemanly of you,” Steve chuckles, and gives James the perkier of the two instead, “but this is about eight different substitutes. This one’s the one _I_ can drink.”

“Ahh,” James says. “I’ll remember next time.”

Steve looks pleased at that, as though he really believes James will. It’s nice to be trusted with that, James thinks. 

Steve goes back to the counter and grabs something else, doing something with his gloves that rustles. When he puts another plate, with a danish, on the counter, Bucky figures he must have changed his gloves. Then he grabs it and disappears for a second, and the hum of the microwave starts up again as Steve walks out from behind the counter, and out of view completely. 

A few seconds after that, the light over the counter goes out, and then the microwave beeps just as Steve comes back and starts to turn things off again. He strips off his gloves and grabs his danish, and then he comes over to sit next to James. 

Like, actually _next_ to James - it’s a booth seat, and he could have picked one of the chairs on the floor, but he budges up next to James instead. 

“Go on,” Steve says around a yawn. “You didn’t have to wait.”

And James-

Okay, James has had some hot chocolates but this is pretty fucking amazing actually. 

“What is _this_?” James says, incredulous. “What _is_ this?”

Steve smiles, and props his elbow on the tabletop so he can lean his head on his hand. 

“That’s the Albert Iowa,” he says. “Secret Menu Item.”

“You have a secret menu?” James asks, and Steve chuckles.

“I have a Secret Menu Item,” he says. “It’s for special occasions. It’s just really good quality chocolate, milk, and heavy cream.”

“It’s fuckin’ _delicious,_ is what it is,” James says. “It’s like drinking _soup._ Is the chocolate from Albert?”

Steve narrows his eyes a little, and his cheeks go a little pink. His nose is pink, too, but that’s still from the cold. 

“It’s actually really dumb,” he says, “but I thought I was bein’ smart at the time. One of the Albert City zipcodes is five-oh-five-one-oh. Fifty, five, ten.”

James tilts his head.

“I don’t get it,” he says.

“Know your Roman numerals?” Steve asks, and James thinks about it.

Then he smiles. 

“Fifty-five-ten, L-V-X,” he says. “So ‘lux,’ as in luxurious?”

“Bingo,” Steve says, but he doesn’t move much when he says it, just stares at James with a small smile on his face. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t go for something a little _light_ er,” James answers, and Steve screws up his face and laughs. 

“That’s almost as bad as mine,” he says. “How is it?”

 _“Really_ good,” James says. “How’s yours?”

“Not as good as yours, I’d imagine,” Steve answers. “But it’ll do.”

Steve finally lifts his head off his hand and gets to his danish. 

Steve is the first of the two of them to dunk his danish in his hot chocolate, and James follows suit once he knows Steve won’t find it bad behavior. He says as much, and gets a look he might almost describe as affectionate amusement from Steve in return. 

James wishes he were better at pacing himself, he really does. The cinnamon bun is gone far too quickly, and the hot chocolate last a little longer, but not much. 

“Oh my God, that was good,” he says. “Seriously, that was so good.”

Steve collects the two plates and mugs and goes to stand with a groan.

“Hey, I’ll get those,” James says, but Steve shakes his head.

“Stop it,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s my café and I asked you in. You’ve done plenty this month.”

James shuts his mouth with a click. He knows Steve won’t say much else about the bagels but he’s also very aware that Steve’s very aware of it. He wonders briefly if this is a thank-you for that, but he doesn’t think Steve’s that kind of guy. Certainly, if this were only a thank-you, Steve wouldn’t have told him what he told on the beach.

“Right,” Steve says, once he’s dumped the plates in the sink.

“Yeah,” James says, and Steve comes around the counter to stand with his back against it. 

“I had a nice time tonight,” he says. “We can tell Nat and the others if you’d like. I just wanted the first one to go well.”

“Sure,” James says softly. “I don’t have anyone else’s numbers anyway so…”

Steve chuckles, but then the amusement slips off his face and James is very suddenly treated to that intense expression again. 

“I’m glad we talked,” he says. “Because I might make a rash decision right about now otherwise.”

James can’t look away from him.

There’s no light above him now, so he’s only lit by the residual light from James’ table, and he leans back, long legs, narrow shoulders, against the counter, his hands gripping the counter too. The movement pushes the sides of his shirt inward, and the shirt is unbuttoned a good portion of the way down - James sees pale skin and pink and black peeking out. Steve’s glasses, from this angle, are mostly a reflection of the café floor but it doesn’t matter.

Steve said he was a top, and James feels very, very pinned by his gaze right about now. 

“Don’t let me be the cause of that,” he says, because he really wants Steve to ask him up, but he’d bet nothing will put Steve off faster than him saying so. 

Steve pushes off the counter and digs his keys out of his pocket, and James stands up and starts to walk to the back door. Steve doesn’t walk a head of him, he waits for James to gets there and walks with him, flicking the lights switch as they pass it.

“We should do this again,” James says as he reaches the door. 

“Mhm,” Steve answers, putting the key into the lock and turning it. “We should. Next Friday?”

“Sure,” James says. “Same time, same place?”

“It’s like you’re reading my mind,” Steve answers, and opens the door.

“If you were reading my mind…” he says, but he’s smiling, and Steve rolls his eyes and shakes his head though he’s smiling, too. James steps outside and turns to face him. “I’d really like to kiss you goodnight,” he says.

There are a long few moments where James thinks he’s messed up, until Steve speaks again.

“I would,” Steve murmurs. “Really I would, despite what I said. But you had that hot chocolate and I didn’t think ahead.”

“Got a spare toothbrush?” James asks. 

Steve laughs.

“No,” he says. “But you can bring yours next time. Right?”

“Right,” James says.

And then he takes one step forward, and tilts his head all the way over so that it’s clear he’s not aiming for Steve’s mouth. He moves slowly enough that Steve could stop him, that Steve could move away, but Steve doesn’t. He just tilts his head slightly and lifts his chin so that, when James brushes his cheek with his nose, and then his cheek just to make sure his lips don’t touch Steve, Steve is letting him.

James takes a step back. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. 

“Bright and early,” Steve answers.

“Ugh,” James responds. “Bright and mid-morning.”

Steve’s rich, slow chuckle follows him all the way to his car, and he doesn’t hear the building door close until he’s opening the door to get in.

He looks back in time to see Steve stifling a yawn with his hand, and then the door is shut, and the blind is down, and there might well have been nobody there at all. It doesn’t stop James from smiling all the way home. 

Once he’s in and settled, his parents having already gone to bed, he gets a glass of warm milk and checks his messages.

 _‘Steve tells me you were the perfect gentleman,’_ Nat’s text says. _‘Congratulations to both of you.’_

And so he’s smiling all the way to bed, too.

***

Saturday morning does not find James’ favorite barista at his favorite coffee shop. As a matter of fact, Polaris, whose doors are wide open and whose parasols are out, seems at first to be abandoned when he gets there.

He wonders for a second about tapping the doorbell on the counter but he’s not in any rush - he’s got the whole day, and his laptop, and a book, and his phone, to keep him busy.

He sets up in his usual spot - he’s gonna have to pretend to speak to Steve about a ‘RESERVED’ sign once the spring turns to summer and the rush kicks in - and waits for Steve to come back in. It doesn’t take him long, except that he was upstairs, not outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, smiling when he sees James, and it brightens up the shadows on his face a great deal when he does. “What are you having?”

“I would love a millionaire’s shortbread and a horchata latte, if you don’t mind?” he answers, and Steve steps in behind the serving area.

“Not at all, comin’ up,” he says. “You want me to open a tab?”

James, who’s just checking his father’s emails, looks over at him in surprise.

“Joking?”

“Serious,” Steve answers. “Although really I just mean I won’t charge you ‘til you leave later.”

James laughs.

“Sure,” he says. “If that’s easier for you.”

“Eh, it’s a nicer charge to make,” Steve answers. “Makes it look like a bigger sell.”

~

Natalia, surprisingly, stops in just before lunch - she asks for her usual brandysnap bar and doubleshot zebra mochaccino to go just as Steve’s rolling his eyes and throwing an envelope in the trash.

“What was that?” she asks once she’s ordered, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Just the ‘Bucks-fucks again.”

James hears ‘Buck’ and pays a little closer attention, but Steve isn’t talking about him, evidently. 

_“Again?”_ Natalia asks, and Steve shrugs one shoulder, concentrating on her drink.

“Wanna know how much?” he says, and she shakes her head. 

“No,” she says.

Steve gives a noncommittal groan in response, and then he says, 

“Found any Pro Bono Bigshots yet?” 

And James frowns. This is like they’re speaking in code. As Natalia answers in the negative, Steve glances around the place to check on his customers - outside back where the parasols are, over at Bucky-

He double-takes.

“Oh,” he says, and then waves a finger back and forth. “Starbucks wanna buy the place.”

James nearly swallows his tongue.

 _“What!?_ he says. 

“Ah-hah,” Steve nods, tongue in his molars. 

James shakes his head.

“But they already got a Hampton Starbucks! Wait, two? Three.”

“They got five,” Steve answers, holding up corresponding fingers as he leans his other elbow on the counter. “Problem is they’re all take-out. This little place, plus the place next door and the back outside, you could make a nice place to come sit and stay all day on the weekend and spend lots of money, you know? Sit in and have lunch and maybe another coffee and maybe dessert. If they were here, and had the space, it’d be a goldmine. And they can do it over my dead body.”

James feels his eyebrows climb, but then they come down again as he frowns. 

“How much are they asking?” he says, and Steve shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “I got this place as a gift and I ain’t gonna stand aside and watch ‘em ruin it. Besides, I don’t know much about Erskine’s estate but part of the stipulation of me havin’ it was passin’ it on to someone deserving. I do _not_ think Seattle’s global-domination-est counts.”

James blinks a couple of seconds while that sinks in, and then he cocks his head. 

“You got a lawyer?”

“Sweetheart, I don’ gotta _suit_ , makes you think I gotta lawyer?” he drawls (he has a very nice drawl) and then he stands up and goes back to his coffee machine.

James thinks about it. It is a nice place but…With Steve’s medical bills, he’s never gonna pay them off selling pastries, and a lawyer would - as he says - probably be beyond his means unless they can find one willing to work for free.

“You ever think about maybe expanding?” James asks.

It’s the wrong thing to say.

“Sure,” Steve answers, deadpan. “I’ll buy up a couple of beach-side properties with my cookie profits. Have to jack my prices up though, think people’ll pay twenty for a half?”

Natalia looks at James, and slowly shakes her head, a warning not to answer as Steve turns his back. James holds up a hand, conceding.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“I just want ‘em to stop,” Steve says to Natalia. “It ain’t like I’m ever sellin’, why don’t they get it through their thick skulls?”

“Everyone else along here probably gets the same,” she answers. “There’s a least an espresso machine in here.”

Steve snorts.

“Not that they know how to use it,” he answers, setting her drink down on the counter. “You starting your temping thing today?”

“Thanks,” Natalia says, pressing her card to the reader. “Yeah. Wish me luck.” Steve does and, as she passes James, she says, “Try not to put your foot so far into your mouth that you choke.”

James just gives her a flat look, and she leaves. 

It’s only a couple of minutes later that Steve says something that sounds a lot like a curse-word, and James glances over to see what’s wrong - he might have burned himself, or cut his hand - but he can’t see Steve.

Nothing else happens for a long few seconds. 

“Steve?” 

“Just a second, Bucky,” Steve answers, and so Bucky locks his laptop and gets up to go a little closer and see if he can find where Steve has gone. 

He comes all the way around the corner, which is a sticky-out corner because there’s a stock-room right there, and finds Steve on his knees inside the stock-room. He looks up as Bucky comes into view.

“You okay?” Bucky says. “I don’t want anything, I’m just checking.”

“Oh, I’m,” he says. “I’m fine, just, I’m gonna have to Amazon Prime some hazelnut syrup, I didn’t order a spare last week.”

“Did you not order it last week because you were sick?” James asks, and Steve puts a hand on the counter and starts to push up onto his feet.

“Yeah,” he says. “The register’s just a register, I stock-take by hand.”

James holds out a hand to him and Steve, surprised by it, pauses, and then takes it with a nod of thanks so James can help pull him onto his feet. 

“Okay,” Steve says. “I’m gonna text Nat.”

James tilts his head.

“You are?” he says.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, digging his knuckles into his eyes under his glasses. “I use her Prime.”

James just stares at him for a moment or two. 

“You use her Prime?” he says, and Steve, in the middle of a text, just nods.

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Don’t know what I’d do without her to be honest. Alright!” 

He looks up. 

“I’m gonna put up a note for no hazelnut - ‘less you wanna do it. How’s your handwriting?

James laughs, and Steve just gives him a grin and grabs some paper.

~

“So when d’you wanna meet the parents?” James asks. 

Steve laughs.

“Can they fit me into their busy schedule?” he asks, and James nods.

“Oh sure,” he says. “I can move some of his stuff around.”

“Is that what you do?” Steve asks, cleaning the wand on the espresso machine. “Move stuff around?”

“Amongst other things,” James answers. “I’m his PA so I make sure his day goes smoothly.”

“This is the part where I’m hoping your wages are One Pastry An Hour,” Steve says. “You’re not looking for work, are you?”

And James frowns a little.

“You need a PA?”

Steve makes that _Tschuh_ sound again - James is starting to associate it with him. 

“I need _something,”_ he says. “Clear up my spreadsheets, sort out my stockroom, get the Bucks-fucks off my back, maybe switch providers so I’m not hemorrhaging cash every time I put the George Foreman on…”

He isn’t serious, not even slightly, but James thinks about it.

“I’m free on weekends,” he says. “At least, I am for now.”

“Lucky for some,” Steve answers, and pulls a small espresso before he dumps it in a glass of ice. “But also, no, don’t be ridiculous. I don’t need a PA, I need a kick up the backside.”

“Last person needs a kick up the backside is you,” James says, and Steve shakes his head. “I’m serious,” James says. “About all of it; I can’t just…magic everything better but half of my dad’s shit is organized in spreadsheets. Pick a senator and I can tell you spouse, marital status, birthday, anniversary, kids, pets, and office hours. For a start.”

Steve laughs.

“Oh my God. Well I can give you those right now. None, unmarried, July fourth, last Saturday…what was the next one?”

“Kids, pets, office hours,” James says. “Did you say-”

“Bup-bup,” Steve cuts him off, then counts off the rest of his criteria, “no, no, and any time I can make money,” he says. “And yeah, I said July fourth, yuck it up. You’re the one works on Capitol Hill - at least mine was chance.”

“You must be sick of the Tom Cruise jokes by now,” he says, and Steve’s eyebrows go way high.

“By the age of about ten, actually, but yeah.”

James chuckles.

“You good for everything?” Steve asks. “I’m gonna take a break if you don’t need a drink?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” James says. “You heading out?”

Steve stretches, then winces, arching his back for a second, probably to get the kinks out.

“Ehh,” he says. “I dunno. If you’re not, I’m happy indoors.”

“If you’re happy indoors, so am I,” James answers, and Steve rolls his eyes. 

“ ‘I dunno,’ ” he says, in a fair approximation of one of the Disney Jungle Book vultures. “ ‘What d’you wanna do?’ ”

James laughs.

“Come sit with me,” he says. “Let’s talk spreadsheets.”

“Oooh,” Steve answers, stripping his gloves off into the trashcan. “Be still my heart.”

He pours a hefty glug of alternative milk into the iced espresso and then gives it a pump of- James doesn’t see which syrup, but still.

“Go on then,” he says. “Show me what I’m doing wrong.”

“Psh,” James answers. “It’s not about what you’re doing wrong. It’s about how to optimize what you’ve always done right, and automate as much as you can.”

“Huh,” Steve answers, clearly amused but skeptical. “That’d be nice.”

~

It’s not like Steve doesn’t have an accurate schedule, or a list of suppliers. He has. He has _a ton._ But the problem, James discovers very quickly, is that it’s a carefully organized series of notes and business cards, all adhered in an incredibly careful manner to the back of the storeroom door.

James and Steve stand next to each other looking at it.

“I mean, _I_ can read it,” Steve says, and James nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s not unreadable.”

“What’s is _that_ supposed to mean?” Steve says, and James guffaws.

“It doesn’t mean anything, this is fine. Where’s your schedule?”

“It’s symbols,” Steve answers. “I got a system.”

James nods.

“Yep.” He says. “No, I can see that. You got asterisks for reordering and you’re usin’ abbreviations for yourrrr…suppliers?”

“Yeah,” Steve nods. 

“Whiteboard’s for task tracking?” 

“Yeah,” Steve says again. “Look, I can see your laughin’. I got about two minutes before my break is over, you gonna help me out or not?”

James looks at him.

“Can you say that a little more Brooklyn?” he says, and Steve plants his hands on his hips.

“I gaddabat two minniseformah braykizovah,” he says, chewing the words so hard they might as well be taffy, waving his hands around for extra effect. “Yugonna helmeyatta nat?”

James guffaws, can’t help it - he didn’t expect Steve, austere and reclusive, to actually do it. It takes him by complete surprise, and the fact that, when he pauses for breath, Steve - whose eyebrows are very high on his forehead and whose mouth is trembling - has not only replanted his hands on his hips but is also very obviously trying not to smile, _does not help at all._

“I’ll take a look,” he wheezes, grabbing onto the nearest hard surface for support.

 _“Bene,”_ Steve answers, bringing all his fingers together in a point in front of his face, and then he leaves James gasping in his wake.

James does his utmost to regain his legs, and manages - once he’s gotten his breath back - to take a couple of reasonable photographs of the back-of-the-door setup. It really isn’t bad at all, everything is coded, everything corresponds, and the whiteboard shows check marks under tasks for each date.

It’s not updatable, though, and it doesn’t rollover - once Steve wipes that board clean, those records are gone. James expects that Steve takes photos, just in case, but it’s not a system that Steve can track over any length of time without having to hand-draw graphs from several grainy old photos given that there’s no way his iPhone is capable of the types of pictures James’ is. 

But James has access to spreadsheets, which can access calendars and subsequently notifications, and which can be synced to contacts and address books, and which allow special, fancy things like conditional formatting and formulae that track your totals _for_ you.

James has a lot of talents, and a lot of things he enjoys, but where he really shines is organization. 

So he settles back into his booth and starts work. 

As usual, when he starts a new project, he has to start a few times when it becomes evident that the information isn’t meshing properly, but what he ends up with is, if he does say so himself, a pretty fuckin’ good system.

According to the information Steve has on the stockroom door - and yes, he had to go back and check - Steve’s got a reordering schedule, stock requirements, stock levels, and providers. 

By the time James is done, Steve has a spreadsheet he can update nightly and, if he does, it’ll go yellow when he’s low and red when he’s imminently out of everything, at which point it will send a notification to his calendar to call the right supplier, with a corresponding yellow for low, or red for Order More Now.

He’s also got alternatives, coded a paler color of each supplier. So Don, the guy Steve gets coffee from, is purple, and Monty from the the “call Monty if Don is out” note is in lilac, which will also come up - which means Steve can see at a glance what he’s low on and who to call. 

Halfway through the afternoon, he asks for Steve’s phone - has to give it back once when Nat returns his text about Amazon - and syncs the calendar to the system by uploading it to Steve’s online drive, and then all he has to do is wait until Steve’s got a minute to come see.

“So it isn’t gonna call or email for you,” James tells him as Steve comes over. “You still haven to do that, but it’ll schedule the ‘call whoever’ note. So- Look,” and he brings up the stock list. “Say you’re down to 3 bagels from your Spencer guy…” and he inputs the number. 

It goes red instantly, James hits save and sync, and Steve’s phone vibrates on the table. 

“See?” he says. 

There it is on Steve’s screen - _Calendar;_ it reads, with a little red dot next to a name that’s backed by cobalt blue. _3 Bagels in stock. Call Spencer 7:00 tonight._

Bucky expects Steve to be smiling. _Bucky_ is smiling. But when he looks at Steve, Steve is looking at him as though he’s just had a very long day and isn’t far off being done with the world. 

“What?” Bucky says, the lack of relief and/or gratitude he’d expected from Steve throwing him off a bit.

“Bucky, I’m protanopic,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t understand what that is but something is wrong and it sinks like a stone in his stomach.

“I don’t understand what that is,” he says.

“I can’t see red,” Steve answers. “You’re showin’ me yellow, yellow, yellow, blue, blue, and more yellow.”

“What?” James says. “You’re _colorblind?”_

“Why d’you think I used symbols, Bucky?” Steve says, sounding like he’s at a loss.

“Well, I thought you only had one color whiteboard pen,” he says, but then he waves his hand. “It’s fine, it’s conditional formating. We got wingdings, right?”

“What, the font?”

“Yeah!” James nods. “So gimme another twenty minutes I’ll change the low/out to textures and the names to symbols. That work for you?”

Steve frowns.

“You can do that?” 

“What, change the conditional formatting to textures?”

Steve nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “I knew you could make patterns but you can make it change the patterns same way you could for color?”

“Yeah, easy,” James nods. “You wanna watch?”

Steve looks over his shoulder at the counter and scrapes his teeth so far over his lower lip that he catches the labret piercing.

“Yeah,” he says, sounding not-sure. Then he turns back. “You know what? Yeah. Yeah, why don’t you show me?”

And, in fact, it doesn’t take twenty minutes at all - it barely takes ten. James just changes the yellow to dots and the red to diagonal lines, both in a dark enough gray that Steve will see it while still being light enough so as not to obscure the text.

Then he pulls up the photographs of the stockroom system and…okay, he James does have to sort-of-substitute some of the symbols, but it does pretty well.

“See?” James says, taking the bagels down to three again. 

This time, the notification that comes up on Steve’s calendar is-

“Hey!” Steve says quietly. “Can you zoom in?” James does. “Little more, Bucky, my eyes aren’t worth a damn,” and James does. “Damn. That’s… _great.”_ Then he looks at James like he’s confused. “That’s really great, Buck.”

Buck - a nickname for a nickname, James can certainly live with that. 

“Here’s the smart part,” James says, and switches tab inside the document to pull up all the tables and pie-charts he’s connected to it. “The data collects itself as you go, as long as you Save As. You can just save every month as a new month, and then I can write you one to import that data too so you’ll see your trends. Probably won’t do much for a month or so but it-” he shrugs “-y’know, might do more to help you out with forecasting.”

But Steve isn’t looking at the textured pie charts or the line charts with different line types. Steve is staring at him.

His expression looks almost afraid.

“Bucky,” he whispers. 

“Does this work for you?” James asks, because he isn’t sure.

“Bucky, this is _amazing_ ,” he says. “Do you know how useful this is gonna be? How much time it’s gonna save me?”

Bucky shrugs. 

“Eh, one day I’ll figure out how to automate the whole thing.”

“No really,” Steve says, nodding as he speaks. “It’s gonna save me a lot of work.”

“If you don’t mind having your laptop down here,” James says, “you can do it as you go.”

“I…I don’t know what to say,” Steve says. “Besides thank you.”

“No problem,” James says. 

Steve stares at him for another long few moments, and then he shakes his head. 

“No, you know what?” Steve says. “Your drinks are on me today. I can’t do much else but-”

“What?” James says. “No!”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It’s your day off, _and_ I know there’s no _way_ I’d be able to afford your rates.”

“Steve, it barely took me any time at all,” James answers, but Steve stands up.

“You took almost all afternoon at it,” he says. “At least from when you took those pictures.”

“Then lemme pay for before that,” James says - he’s well-aware Steve needs the money. 

Steve chews the inside of his cheek for a second.

“Alright,” he says. “But that second half of your tab is on me.”

“If I can’t talk you out of it,” James answers, and goes back to his laptop to make sure everything’s saved before he shuts it down.

“Thank you, Bucky,” Steve says, his voice low and sincere.

There’s a brief moment of pressure against the side of his skull, and the creak of the booth seat, both gone before James registers that Steve must have put one knee down and kissed the top of his head. 

When James turns his head to watch Steve walk away, Steve isn’t even looking at him. James can’t help smiling at him anyway.

***

“You go to church?” Steve asks as he counts what’s in the register.

“No,” Bucky answers. “Why?”

Steve shrugs. 

“Never see you here on a Sunday,” he says. 

“You’re open on a Sunday?” James asks, and that makes sense, he thinks - when Steve was sick last weekend Nat asked on the Saturday if he’d be taking the next day off, it just didn’t register.

“I’m open every day,” Steve says, and James shakes his head. 

“Damn, no time off?” 

“Boss won’t approve my vacation requests,” he says. “Tells me I’m needed behind the counter.”

James winces.

“If you tell him where to get of, you and I can go to Hawaii or somethin’, make a weekend of it.”

Steve smiles tiredly but doesn’t say anything else. Maybe it’s too early in the relationship for that. 

“Florida?” James tries, and Steve shakes his head.

“You in your shorts, me in a full-body boiler suit and inch-thick sunscreen?” he says.

“Alright, the arctic, then,” James answers. “We’ll go in winter so the sun never comes up.”

Steve at least laughs then, even if he does have to clear his throat by the end.

“Think about it,” James says. “You and me, the stars, the aurora, sharing a sled…”

And something changes. James doesn’t know what it is, but Steve lifts his head, and James can see him visualizing it, and then…

Steve goes very still, and the smile fades from his face. And then he seems to come back to himself from wherever he went. 

“Yeah,” he says, and goes back to counting the cash in the register. 

James tries to figure out what the hell just happened, where on earth Steve just went in his head. 

“Maybe one day,” Steve says, and then he closes the register. “So, am I gonna see you tomorrow?” 

“You are,” James says. “You absolutely are, I didn’t know you opened on Sundays.”

Steve smiles.

“Good,” he says. “I close early on a Sunday - open at eight instead of seven, close at five instead of seven.”

“Sounds good,” James says. “Bring your hat, we can go for a walk.”

Steve comes out from behind the register.

“Actually, once it gets to evening I do a lot better,” he says. “Sunset’s not so bad, I can usually get away with a shirt or two.”

James cocks his head.

“Yeah?” he says. 

“Mhm,” Steve nods. “We used to put a sheet up in the window when I was little. Once it gets past maybe three in the afternoon I’m okay under fabric.”

“Huh,” James says. “How ‘bout that.”

Steve bobs his eyebrows.

“So I’ll see you around five?” he says, and James smiles.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I gotta stop eatin’ normal stuff otherwise I’ll never get to kiss you goodnight.”

“Get out of my café,” Steve says, but he looks at James through half-closed eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” James says, and he takes his stuff with him, and walks away from the café while Steve locks the door behind him, so that he doesn’t stand there staring until Steve draws the blinds between them.

***

James stays away from the café all day because he knows that, if he shows up and sits there and waits, he’ll get nothing done and the day will drag. Instead, he pre-makes some meals with his mom and spends a little time discussing something from Politico with his dad, and then showers and makes sure he looks nice and tries to think of something he can take.

Chocolates are way out, and James can’t take a bottle of wine for a guy who doesn’t drink. 

He could. Take some rice? Steve can eat rice, right?

He can’t even take random other candy because even Nat doesn’t know what colorants and stabilizers he can’t have. Instead what he does is open the notes app on his phone and _leave_ it open, so that it’s in the way once he unlocks it. That way, even if he forgets to ask, he’ll be reminded when he tries to do something else. 

He thinks about flowers, but there’s no way Steve doesn’t have hayfever. No way. A guy like Steve probably just has to _look_ at a flower and his eyes’d be streaming. But…a plant though…

He thinks about it, checks his watch, and finds that he has - he thinks - enough time. There’s a craft store near enough to Polaris that James should be able to stop there if he leaves now.

“Hot date?” his mother asks, and he nods.

“Yep,” he says, and her eyebrows go up. “Only asked him out a week ago though.”

“This the chicken soup guy?” she says, and he laughs. 

“Yes,” he says. 

“That chicken soup is a miracle worker,” she nods. “When do we meet him?”

“Once he’s sure I’m not a serial killer,” James answers, because he hasn’t always been tactful about Steve but he’s pretty damn sure he wouldn’t want James telling his mother what he said on the beach, and serial-killer is easier to laugh off than what Steve is actually worried about. 

Then he leaves, because he doesn’t want to be late and he doesn’t want his mother asking questions. 

~

Steve is literally actually locking the door to the café when James comes up, and he turns to see who James is and smiles once he makes eye-contact.

“Hi,” he says, and James stretches out a hand.

“Hi,” he says back, “I didn’t have bread or milk today and I brushed my teeth, so I’m gonna come in for a kiss on your cheek right now.”

Steve laughs, and looks bemused, but James would rather have him laugh and look bemused than flinching away. 

James kisses his cheek and then pulls back and looks at him in the very-orange evening light.

Steve’s in a white shirt under a red-plaid shirt under a light brown cardigan, his pashmina around his neck and spreading out over his narrow shoulders, his ever-present gray beanie on his head, his ever-present black skinny jeans looking a little threadbare over the knees. One of his tunnels is now a plug that’s half intricately carved wood and half what looks like opalite, and the other is a wooden spiral. His nose stud is a little clear gem set into gold today, rather than the usual black stud, and his labret piercing is somehow two very slender gold rings that bisect his full lower lip. In fact, his lower lip is so full that the rings are _just_ too small, and cinch them just a little in the center. Steve’s lips look very soft. James is staring at them.

“You changed your piercings,” he says instead. 

James is still staring at them.

“Yeah,” Steve says. “Tryin’a brush up nice, you know.”

“Yep,” James says. “You don’t have to do that, you’re hot already.”

He is still staring at them.

Which means he’s still staring at them when Steve _actually smiles._

James remembers seeing Steve _Actually Laugh_ when he was closing up that time, but this…

This is a full, wide smile, open affection - bright white and plush red and a flash of gold as his his eyes crinkle and his lashes lower, so that he can look up at James through them and it makes James’ breath stutter in his chest-

“I would very much like to kiss you,” James says, only he says it a little less clearly than he meant to and a lot more mumbly, and Steve’s smile doesn’t go, but it does dim; Steve doesn’t look away, but he doesn’t look at James’ eyes any longer either. “I won’t,” James amends. “But I would like to, your lip ring is very attractive.”

Steve chuckles.

“Well,” he says. “We goin’ on this walk or we standin’ here talkin’ about my piercings?” 

“Uh, first,” James says, and holds out the little potted plant he picked up at the craft store.

“Uh,” Steve says, but James holds it out a little closer.

“It’s plastic,” he says. “ ‘Cause I didn’t know if you had hayfever, and wine and chocolates are out.”

Steve’s mouth drops open in surprise, and he takes the tiny little plant pot. Then he looks at James.

“That’s,” he says, and then laughs. “I mean, you’re right, plants don’t gotta have flowers to set me off but _this…_ ” He looks at James. “Thank you.”

He gets his keys out again and unlocks the door, and then he and the little plant step inside. He comes back out without it, and locks the door behind him.

“That’s real sweet of you, Buck,” he says, and James grins.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says. “I had a hell of a time figuring out something to bring.”

“Bucky,” Steve tuts. “Bringing you is plenty enough.”

James sweeps out a hand in reply, offering to let Steve lead the way, but Steve offers James his elbow. James huffs a laugh through his nose and takes it. This is easy - he’s never understood how people have a problem with this, how it can bother people that someone might be shorter than them or something. James has no problem being with somebody shorter than him, or younger than him, or thinner than him. Especially not when they’re Steve.

“So go on, why a labret?” James asks.

“Hold on,” Steve says, and leans back to try the café door. It’s definitely locked, so they start walking. “I was thinkin’ about an eyebrow piercing but the piercer told me they always reject eventually. You know? It’s sort of a surface piercing and they always…” He brings his free hand up to his face and mimes what looks like a loose salute near his eye to indicate, presumably, a piercing popping out “…so, I wanted something that wasn’t gonna wind up a waste, you know? Permanent.”

“Ahuh,” James says. “It…really draws attention to your mouth, I’m having trouble thinking of other things. It looks good, though!”

“Oh,” Steve chuckles. “Well, I just wanted something visible.”

“Hmm, on trend?” James asks, and Steve winces.

“Nope,” he says. “My, uh. My ex hated the nose piercing. So I got another one as soon as he was gone.”

James feels his eyebrows go up, but it’s fair, he thinks.

“Okay,” he says, “alright, I can see that. Did you want another one before that?”

“Oh yeah,” Steve says. “I’d been savin’ up for one - that’s how I found out he hated ‘em. I said ‘ I’m thinking about this’ and he said ‘I hate them.’ ”

James shakes his head.

“But you have tunnels,” he says.

“Pardon?” Steve answers.

“But you have tunnels,” James says a little more loudly, gesturing to them and Steve nods.

“Yep,” he says. “Right? Thirty mils, had ‘em before he met me but,” he shrugs “what’re you gonna do?”

“Well I think it’s great,” James says. “I think it’s all great.”

Steve laughs.

“I respectfully,” he says, “appreciate that you like it all, while simultaneously not giving a fuck whether you like it or not.”

“Good,” James says. “Your body, you get to choose what to do with it.”

“Haaaa,” Steve says, in a way that sounds less enthusiastic the longer it goes on. “Sure.”

They walk in silence for a little bit, and James squints out at the sunset.

“How’s your skin?”

“It’s alright,” Steve says softly - less in answer and more in reassurance. “I’ll be fine. I got long sleeves on and the sun’s low enough that it won’t hurt me.”

James shakes his head.

“It really makes a difference?” 

Steve looks at him in the orange glow of it.

“Ten minutes in direct sunlight,” he says, “fifteen through a window if I’m lucky. The double parasol is more of a precaution than anything - I can stand under café awnings and be fine after about three p.m.”

“So we just need to make you a giant tent,” James says. “Right?”

“Yeah, like cover the whole building with a fumigation tent, outside seating and all.”

James nods.

“Flaps for the doors, we can sew it up tight every night when you close up.”

Steve laughs.

“Or I could just dress in a sheet twenty-four-seven,” 

“Halloween all day every day,” James answers. “We could make four little holes.”

“Four?” Steve asks.

“Yeah,” James says. “Two for your eyes and then two for the arms on your glasses.”

Steve laughs hard enough that his body curls forward as they walk.

“You want me to wear the glasses _outside_ the sheet?”

“Well yeah,” James answers. “How else would I know it’s you?”

Steve laughs so hard he has to stop walking, and James just watches him. Steve has a very powerful neutral expression, and a very powerful annoyed expression, and a very obvious ‘I’m so done’ expression. But his laughter is _beautiful._

He laughs with his whole body, his whole face screwing up, his lashes hide his eyes and the apples of his cheeks go round and high, and his mouth opens wide as he shoulders come in and his body comes forward. He puts an arm across himself like he’s laughing so hard he’s got to hold himself together, and still doesn’t let go of James once.

Here’s a guy James’ age - almost thirty - who looks like he might get blown down the waterfront by a stiff breeze, and a body that, apparently, keeps trying to quit on him, and James cannot look away from him.

James just watches him laughing, laughing with him a little too, and Steve winds down eventually but still looks at James like there’s something amazing it about him.

“What?” James asks, and Steve shakes his head.

“I’m trying not to make a really stupid decision,” he says quietly, but he’s still smiling, and James kind of thinks maybe stupid decisions are okay if they make Steve look like that.

“Want me to lend an ear?” he says. “I promise I won’t try and influence your answer.”

Steve closes his eyes and looks down, and tongues at his labret piercing for a moment or two before he looks up.

“I’m trying not to just say _screw it_ and take you back to mine,” he says and James-

“What?” James says-

When did- Really?

“Really?”

Steve laughs.

“Whaddya mean, ‘really,’ Bucky?” he says. “Of _course_ really, have you any idea how _good_ you look?”

James is reeling a little. 

“What?” he says again. “But…You- Really?”

Steve looks confused, and less enthusiastic, and James’ brain takes a second to come down from its spinning to try and make actual conversation.

“Hold on,” he says, and puts his hands out to touch Steve’s upper arms but remembers not to and takes them back. _“You’re_ trying not to ask _me_ back to your place?” 

“Yes,” Steve says, and he’s beginning to look a lot less happy than he did a minute ago, like he’s not sure Bucky’s serious.

“But…you don’t even want to kiss until our third date,” he says.

“Are you making fun of me?” Steve asks, and Bucky’s eyebrows shoot upward.

“No!” he says. “No, I am _not_ , I’m _serious_ \- you’re holding back from inviting me up?” 

Steve frowns, and takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Yes,” he says. “Bucky, I wanted you from the second you walked in that first time. I couldn’t speak after you said hi. I almost asked you up after you walked me back from the restaurant last week.”

James just blinks at him. 

“But you wouldn’t let me ask you out!” he says. “You rejected every single attempt I made at flirting!”

Steve’s mouth twists. 

“Everybody flirts with me, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Everybody flirts with you _because you’re hot_ , Steve,” James answers. “Why would I ask you out if I didn’t think you were hot?” 

And Steve seems to think about this for a moment or two. 

“Guys like you don’t like guys like me,” he says, and James spreads his arms.

“What guys?” he says.

“Rich guys,” Steve answers. “Guys who like hot chocolate and pastries, and garden parties and expensive cars and million dollar mansions and trips to the Hamptons on the weekends when they’re done in D.C.. They don’t fall for the coffee shop guy, Bucky, and they certainly don’t fall for the guy they can’t kiss after a grilled cheese.”

James frowns. He hadn’t thought of that, not being able to kiss him after a grilled cheese. 

“I’ll give it up,” he says. “I’ll carry a toothbrush.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and now he’s exasperated, and this isn’t what James wanted from an evening walk, certainly isn’t what he wanted after an _‘I want to take you home with me’_ confession.

“Steve, wouldja gimme a chance?” he says. “Would you? I didn’t flirt ‘cause I’m an asshole - I mean, I’m _probably_ an asshole-” Steve makes that soft little _Tschuh_ noise again “-but I, you’re, Steve, you’re gorgeous. You’re gorgeous and I like how sarcastic you are and I like that you don’t take any shit. And you don’t hafta take me home with you but…” he shakes his head. “How do I convince you?” he says. “How do I convince you I want you?”

But James realizes, he can’t, can he? Steve’s already dated a guy who couldn’t eat grilled cheese and kiss him, already dated a rich guy who liked garden parties and expensive cars. The last guy-like-James that Steve dated was a criminal, who did horrible things to him, and almost did worse things to him. 

“I know you want me,” Steve says, and- oh. 

Okay. 

“Good,” James says.

“I’m just trying to figure out if I’m thinkin’ with the right brain,” he says, and James doesn’t look down at his dick now Steve’s mentioned it. “Every time you walk in I want you, every time you make a joke I want to kiss the smile off your face. Do you have any idea?”

“Steve, I had _no_ idea,” James answers. “You been keepin’ me at arm’s length for two months now, I had _no idea_ you want me.”

Because it’s true. Steve has been sarcastic in the face of everything James has said - in a friendly way, sure, but it’s still true. They’ve formed what feels like a tentative friendship, and Steve’s told him he wants it to go further in future, but this? To hear that Steve’s been as lovesick as James, as far as James is concerned, it’s come outta nowhere.

Steve’s eyes narrow.

“Why would I ask you out if I didn’t think you were hot?”

Saints preserve us.

“I thought you wanted to be friends first!” James says. “What is _happening.”_

Steve looks down at his shoes.

“I…put up walls,” he says, and James tries to reel it in. “I do it on purpose but…I thought you could tell I want you.”

“Steve, hand on heart, honest to God,” and he does it, puts his hand on his heart so that when Steve looks up Steve can see he’s serious, “I had no idea you want me.”

“Well, how about this,” Steve says, “I do. That clear enough?”

James laughs. 

“Are we having an argument?”

Steve chews the inside of his cheek. 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Are we?”

“I- Steve, I gotta be honest here, I didn’t know you wanted to kiss me, even. I spend as much time here as I can and you only just started sittin’ with me last week.”

“Every time you show up, I talk to you the whole time you’re in the shop!” Steve says. “I don’t even go outside and read any more, I stay inside with you!”

“Steve, that’s great, and I appreciate it a lot, I mean a _lot_ , but how was I supposed to know that’s a change? I only saw you sit outside twice and then every other time I’ve showed up you’ve been inside.”

“Waiting for you!”

“Yeah but _how would I know that?”_ James asks, and Steve stares at him for a long few seconds and then his eyes cut to one side.

“I,” he says, “was gonna say Nat knows but…Nat wouldn’t’ve told you.” There, finally, is the recognition on Steve’s face. He straightens up, having leaned forward in his insistence, and James feels something ease in his chest. He was worried for a second that this was gonna be the end of it, before they even got started. “Oh.”

James lets it lie for a minute while Steve goes over it in his own head. 

“Oh,” he says again, and James reaches out, slowly so that Steve can pull back if he wants to.

Steve doesn’t, and so James takes his hand - Steve has a thick silver ring on his middle finger and a slender black one around his thumb. 

“I would very much,” James says, _“very much,_ like to kiss you right now. I mean, ‘right now’ is always applicable, I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first saw you.”

“Oh,” Steve says again.

“You want to kiss me?”

“I do,” Steve nods. 

“Well,” James says, “think about it, figure out if you think it’s a good idea, and then you can get back to me. Right?”

Steve looks at their hands, and then looks up at James and searches his face, and he looks _so young._ He looks at James with such an open expression, mouth slightly open, eyebrows up, eyes wide, and he’s pale and unsteady and has bags under his eyes and he’s terrifyingly thin but he is so, _so_ gorgeous. 

“I want to kiss you,” he says, like he didn’t know he could, like he hadn’t known that was what he wanted, and James nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Here, or somewhere else?”

“Right now,” Steve says. “It’s always ‘right now,’ but right now.”

James nods.

“Okay,” he says. 

He keeps Steve’s hand in his own, and lifts his other hand to cradle Steve’s cheek in his palm, slides it back to the heel of his hand is settled in the hollow of Steve’s jaw, his thumb stroking out over the shell of Steve’s ear.

When he leans in, Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away or indicate that he might turn his head, and-

Steve’s lip ring is cold on James’ mouth, even as Steve’s other hand is warm on James’ waist, inside his jacket, over his shirt. He kisses softly, easily, like they have all the time in the world, and Steve’s fingers curl in the wrinkles of James’ shirt as it goes on. He doesn’t part his lips, is the thing, he isn’t trying to shove his tongue in James’ mouth, and so James doesn’t do it back, either, just his lips against Steve’s. It’s almost weird how _right_ it feels. Steve’s breath is warm against his cheek, James can feel the cool corner of Steve’s glasses frames, but Steve’s body is just about pressed up against him and it feels like this is where they’ve been heading, like this is where they should have ended up. If he regrets anything about it, it’s not doing it sooner, but Steve makes a soft sound in the middle of his chest and, very slowly, begins to pull back.

James obliges, because Steve wants to, because otherwise he’d happily stand here for hours and keep going.

Once James opens his eyes, he can see that Steve looks very pained for a moment, eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed tightly together.

“Yep,” he says quietly, and then opens his eyes and looks up at James - he’s all serious again, and his gaze flicks between James’ eyes. “Are you serious about this? About us?”

“Deadly,” James answers. “ _Любовь навеки в сердце моём_.”

Steve either doesn’t know what that means or doesn’t care because he makes no comment about it.

“I don’t wanna be out here any more,” he says, and then he swallows hard.

James looks at him, struck dumb for a second, and then he nods.

“Okay,” he says. “Where do you wanna be?” 

Steve looks like he’s about to wet his lips, but he sucks the lower one in instead. Then he shakes his head minutely.

“Hey,” James says, “if you’re not sure-”

“I’m sure,” he says. “Problem is I’m tryin’ to figure out if bein’ sure is enough. I was sure about….I mean, I’ve been wrong before.”

“Okay,” James says again - feels like all he’s said the past five minutes. “Then you’re sure you want me. I’m sure I want you. You plannin’ on goin’ anywhere any time soon?”

Steve’s brow comes down even further. 

“No,” he says.

“Then I can wait,” James says, and he feels like his whole body screams at him when he does, but it’s the right decision to make. 

James doesn’t doubt that Steve was just as enamored with his ex once upon a time, that he trusted his ex just as much as he trusts James now. Steve believed his ex was a good guy, and wound up in a hell of a lot of trouble over it, so James can wait.

And Steve’s head goes back, his shoulders drop. 

“Alright,” he says. “Now I’m sure.”

And then he walks past James - at least that’s what James thinks is happening. What actually happens is that Steve doesn’t let go of his hand, and so walking-past-James actually turns into tugging James along behind him, at which point James’ brain makes a series of exclamation marks and then moves his body forward to keep up.

“Really?” he says, because that evidently didn’t get him in enough trouble last time, and Steve flashes a grin back over his shoulder.

“Really,” he says. 

~

It doesn’t take them long to get back given that they haven’t gone far from Polaris by the time Steve makes this decision, and they go around back so Steve doesn’t have to open and close the storefront, via the outside so he doesn’t have to disarm the café’s alarm system. 

James’ mind is still out on the beach, lagging behind Steve’s whirlwind decision. Except it isn’t a whirlwind decision, it’s just that it feels like a whirlwind to James. Steve’s been keeping this under wraps for weeks- For _months_ now, if he means what he says. Steve fumbles with his keys when they get there, and James reaches out and wraps his fingers around them so that Steve looks up at him, and then James goes in for another kiss. Steve meets him halfway, not nearly as gently this time, and grabs him by his shirtfront as he does, which sets off all kinds of fireworks in James’ mind.

“Get off me so I can open this door,” Steve says against James’ mouth a moment later, and James realizes that Steve is not only Not Kidding, but Steve is also not kidding because he is itching to Get Upstairs. 

Which is awesome.

Steve gets his key in the door and then _holds the door_ for James, so James goes through and goes up the stairs because he’s…wait maybe he shouldn’t there isn’t much room-

It’s too late, Steve’s shut the door behind them, and James feels his pulse spike in response, feels his lungs get a little shivery with the look Steve gives him as he rounds the corner. How James ever thought this guy was adorable is a mystery to him right at this moment.

Even better, Steve also absolutely doesn’t care that the stairwell isn’t really big enough for both of them at once. He looks up, sees that James is at the door, and just comes right on up after him, key in hand, so that James has to turns sideways and wedge himself up against the wall.

Good news is, Steve has to do the same, and that puts them right up against each other, chest to chest. And okay, Steve’s eyes are level with James’ collar bone, but James feels pinned by him all the same - Steve is very much a large presence _anyway_ , regardless of the size of his body.

The key scratches into the lock and then the door comes open.

“In,” Steve says, and James all but hurls himself through the door on command. 

Steve gets in behind him and shuts the door, and already has his phone in hand. James hears the small ‘ping’ that tells him Steve’s using speech text, and then Steve says,

“James is at mine. I’ll text you in an hour.” 

Then the phone makes the corresponding ‘ping’ that tells him Steve’s done, and Steve throws it at the armchair. 

Then he grabs James by the front of his shirt and walks him backwards until they get to the couch and then-

Steve’s phone pings with, presumably, a return message from Natalia, but James is already kind of falling back onto the couch, and here’s the thing - James is a good six feet tall. Steve is very much not - Steve is five feet four inches, or thereabouts. But Steve has so much _presence_ that, when he follows James down to get over him, James feels like he can’t move, feels like all Steve has to do is look at him to pin him down.

Steve kisses him then, and James feels like he’s unspooling, like he’s going to fall off the couch and shatter into pieces.

“Open your shirt,” Steve says, voice like melted chocolate, and James doesn’t know how a voice like that fits in a ribcage the size of his fist but he’s not complaining. 

James starts to fumble for his buttons and Steve gets their legs tangled and plants his hands either side of James to look down at him, second-guessing himself a moment later to pull off his beanie and his pashmina and throw them aside. 

James tugs the hem of Steve’s white shirt up just a little, ignoring the cardigan and the plaid shirt in favor of getting his hands on Steve’s skin-

“No,” Steve says, and knocks one of James’ hands away and, for a second, James thinks he’s done the wrong thing, until Steve says, “you first. Open that shirt for me.”

James wets his lips and tries to do it but his hands are shaking. 

“You really wanna-”

“You really wanna ask me questions?” Steve answers, but he’s smiling. “Right now?”

James shakes his head and keeps going with his buttons, and then Steve’s hands take over from his. Steve somehow manages to kneel up with their legs tangled, and spreads the two halves of James’ shirt open with his huge, long-fingered hands. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, and actually literally _licks his lips_ are you kidding?

James has been feeling the blood rush downward since they were standing chest to chest outside Steve’s front door, but it’s right at that moment he gets fully hard. 

“Like what you see?” he says, because he always was a bit of a brat.

“Ahuh,” Steve says, and drags his hand down from James’ throat to his stomach. 

He looks very pleased with himself - cat-that-got-the-cream happy - and James stares up at him.

“We’re not fuckin’ today,” Steve says, and James hasn’t heard Steve swear all that often but, firstly, it’s incredibly hot and, secondly, the word ‘fucking’ makes him think of it. “I’m not ready for that.”

“Sure,” James says, although it comes out a little strangled, and Steve frames James’ chest with his hands, strokes down to his belt and back again. 

“You like having your nipples played with?” Steve asks, just _asks_ , voice raising head to toe goosebumps on James’ body.

“Yeah,” he says. “Can I get a look at you?”

“I got tats, and I got scars,” Steve answers. “You can get a look when I say you get a look.”

James arches his back and stretches a little underneath him.

“You’re killin’ me,” he says, and settles his hands on Steve’s thighs.

“Good job, keep ‘em there,” Steve says, and then he goes for James’ _fly_ , and James jerks forward out of shock.

Steve’s hands are up by his own head immediately, hands off James, no hesitation.

“No?” he says. “Say no anytime and I’ll stop, I promise.”

“Yes,” James answers, “very much yes, just a surprise,” and Steve nods. 

He unzips James’ fly and then, James has no idea how he manages to be careful despite the speed with which he’s moving, he gets his hand inside James’ pants, over his shorts, and Steve’s hand is _cold,_ even through the fabric.

“Jesus,” he says, fingers biting into Steve’s thighs, and Steve laughs softly.

“Sorry,” he says. “Bad circulation comes with the other shit.”

He fits his fingers around the shape of James’ cock through the fabric, and strokes nice and firm, and James loses most of his ability to think. He drops his head back against the couch and he groans, putting all of his effort into not moving his hands from where they are. 

“I need to grab condoms,” Steve says.

“I have some in my wallet,” James answers, while Steve is still stroking him, and there’s silence for long enough that James lifts his head to look.

Steve has one eyebrow raised. 

“Polyisoprene?” he says. 

“What?” James answers

“Can’t use latex,” Steve clarifies. “I come up in a rash. ‘S why I don’t use latex gloves downstairs”

James drops back into the couch with another groan, this time of frustration.

“Dammit,” he says.

Steve laughs - low and rich and self-satisfied.

“I have some in my medicine cabinet,” Steve tells him. 

“Do you want me to-” Steve squeezes his dick halfway through that sentence.

“Sweetheart, when I want you to do something, you’ll know,” he says. “Like how about you get out of those clothes while I’m gone, huh?”

James nods as Steve moves to get up, but Steve pauses halfway and kisses James before he does.

“God,” he smiles. “Can’t believe I’ve got you here.”

Then he gets off the couch and onto his feet so he can go into his little bathroom and fetch the condoms. 

James doesn’t waste time getting up - he pulls his shoes off without untying the laces, and his socks go next, and then he shoves his pants and underwear down all in one go. He sits up to get his shirt and jacket off his shoulders, and Steve chooses that moment to come back in.

James looks at him, then double-takes and stares. 

Steve has taken off his shoes and socks but is still wearing his skinny jeans. He has also shed the cardigan and the white shirt he was wearing, in favor of keeping the open plaid shirt on instead. 

He is very thin inside of it, and very pale, but James sees ink in a lot of different places. And Steve’s nipples are both pierced with a little silver bar, James is about to lose his mind.

More than that, though, is a long, pale pink scar that runs almost from between his collabones down almost halfway between where his pectoral muscles would end if they were prominent and his navel.

“Open heart surgery,” Steve says dismissively. “My eyes are up here.”

He doesn’t sound pissed, but James is almost certain that’s the only time Steve’s going to let it go.

“It,” he says, but Steve holds up a hand as he gets back onto the couch.

“If you say some bullshit about how it’s beautiful because it’s part of me, or it’s a sign of my strength and I should wear it with pride or whatever, I’m going to kick you out and that will be the end of this.”

He has a tattoo of God and Adam from the Michelangelo painting, and they don’t touch hands because they’re divided by the scar. 

“Everybody tries to come up with a line - it’s a scar. I needed surgery, I got surgery. It wasn’t about being strong, it sure as fuck isn’t beautiful. With me?”

“Can I be happy you’re alive and I get to be naked on your couch?” James asks, and Steve’s mouth pulls up at one corner.

“Why not?” he says. _“I_ am.” But then he sits back. “You can look at it.” And so James does, eyes the long, smooth, shiny pink line of it.

“Can I touch it?” James asks softly, and Steve nods, holding very still.

“If you want to,” he says. “I don’t not-want you to.”

So James reaches up very slowly, between the open halves of Steve’s shirt, and runs the pad of his finger down the line, from top to bottom.

“Does it hurt?” he says softly.

“It’s pretty desensitized, actually,” Steve answers. “Itches sometimes. Okay?”

James nods, takes his hand away.

“Okay,” he says.

“If you and I are serious about this,” Steve says, “I mean really serious, we need to talk about my health. It’s a long-term issue, it will affect me for the rest of my life.”

“We can talk about it,” James says - he’s hoping it’s not going to be as difficult a conversation as Steve’s tone suggests.

“Later,” Steve says. “Another time.” Then he produces a condom. “Put this on.”

James does - takes it from him and opens the package and rolls the condom on, and then Steve climbs back on the couch, gets over him again. He plants one arm on the back of the couch, and uses it as an anchor as he leans down over James.

James is _very_ aware of how naked he is and how naked Steve isn’t - James is wearing literally only a condom, whereas Steve is all but dressed. 

“Kiss me,” Steve says, and James gets his arms under him to push up onto his elbows so he can reach. 

Steve moans softly into his mouth a moment later, and wraps the fingers of his free hand around James’ cock where it’s resting up against his stomach. James whines.

“Come on,” he says. “Please, I wanted you since you held that sharpie in your mouth, can’t you just lemme get my hands on you?”

Steve kisses him again, more softly this time, and he’s insistent enough about it that James ends up lying flat again. Steve only breaks away for a moment to move his hand from the back of the couch to the cushions so that he can better support himself, and then he’s kissing James’ neck instead, his mouth hot, the labret piercing smooth and unyielding where his lips are soft, though both are body-temperature now. 

James gives himself over to it, sets his hands on Steve’s thighs and holds on - it’s only a hand-job but Steve’s open shirt hangs down and brushes his skin, Steve’s jeans rough against his legs. James moves his head to try and get Steve’s mouth back on his, and it works but he knows that it only works because that’s what Steve wants. 

“Can I touch you?” James asks against Steve’s lips. “Please?” 

“Condom,” Steve answers, and pushes up, produces another one from his pocket and-

“Please,” James says. “Please let me, I wanna feel it in my hand, Steve, I wanna get my fingers around you.”

Steve looks down at him, his expression unreadable, until he holds out the second condom.

“Be careful,” he says, “I took off my underwear in the bathroom, don’t catch me with the zipper.”

James practically drools. Steve’s thighs are so slender, Steve is so short compared to him but, like this, Steve towers over him, and Steve is the type of man who was very definitely made for scenarios just like this. There’s no give in his expression even though he doesn’t look displeased. He looks like he’s thinking a mile a minute and James doesn’t know how he can manage it like this, doesn’t know how someone of Steve’s stature can have such bearing.

“Yeah,” James says, and pops the button on Steve’s jeans and starts to pull the zipper down, careful to tug the fabric towards himself so that he doesn’t catch any of Steve’s skin. 

Once the zipper’s open, James tugs one flap of denim away from Steve’s cock, and it swings upward, full and hard, like it was waiting there just for James.

“Well now,” James says without thinking, and Steve just looks at him like he’s waiting for something.

Right, the condom - James gets the second condom out of the packet and gets hold of Steve’s cock in his left hand so he can out the condom on him with the right. Steve’s cock is lovely - it’s not like a monster but it’s not a disappointment. Pale and relatively slender, it curves a little to Steve’s right and looks nothing short of mouth-watering.

“Can I suck it?” James asks, and Steve shakes his head. 

“Not today,” he says. “We’ll work up to some things. Right now I want to kiss you and I want you to come, and I don’t want you to hold anything back about it, you understand? Make as much noise as you want. Lie down.”

James does - does as he’s told because doing as he’s told has worked out incredibly well for him so far - and Steve lowers himself down after him, one hand planted in the cushions again.

Steve kisses him without any warning this time, and James opens his mouth to it before he remembers that Steve didn’t use tongue when they were out. It turns out not to matter at all - Steve must have been being a gentleman or something, because he’s got one hell of a tongue once it gets going. James hopes Steve’s into oral, really hopes he’s into rimming, because that tongue work is something else. 

He makes a good, tight fist, too, and strokes James’ cock at a pace that’s both way too slow and far too much all at once. James swears he’s going to lose his mind if Steve doesn’t let him do something. 

He can’t help it - he’s had his hands in fists on Steve’s legs but he keeps opening them because he keeps forgetting not to, and he wants so badly just to touch Steve.

“Steve,” he says, probably sounding miserable about it

“Okay,” Steve says. “Alright, touch me, touch me,” and kisses him.

James does, gets his fingers around Steve’s cock, and he feels Steve take a hard breath in through his nose, feels the rumble of a groan come up the back of Steve’s throat, and tightens his fingers when Steve thrusts into his fist a moment later. 

James bites back a groan and spreads his legs a little to try and get Steve to come closer. What he gets is the opposite - Steve breaks the kiss and stills his head.

“I said I wanna hear you,” he says, one eyebrow raised as though none of this affects him at all, as though James isn’t naked on his couch, as though he isn’t halfway to naked himself. 

Steve _squeezes_ James’ cock then, hard and tight, and James says,

“Ohn, fuck,” before he even thinks about it.

“Put your hand down,” Steve says, and James didn’t know he’d lifted his other hand but he puts it down, grabs at the couch cushion with it and strokes hard and fast with the other one. 

Next time he moans, he lets himself do it, and Steve says,

“That’s right,” good and slow, like James is a skittish animal he needs to soothe. “That’s it, you tell me, huh? You tell me when you’re there.”

James isn’t going to be long about it - Steve has hands that are _strong_ and James has been imagining what he felt like since the first time he walked in and saw Steve wiping his hands on that rag, but now he’s here and it’s got the potential to be over before he’s even enjoying it. 

“God, can you,” he says, “can you slow down, I’m gonna-”

“Oh sure,” Steve says, his breath warm on James’ cheek, “sure, how slow you want it, huh? I can stop entirely-”

“Mean,” James says, because trying to come up with something witty right now isn’t working for him. “You’re mean-”

“Oh yeah, I’m the _worst,_ ” Steve answers, proving it with a long, slow stroke that makes James’ insides tie themselves up in knots.

“Oh come _on,_ ” he says, and Steve, somehow not concerned at all, just laughs softly.

“Make up your mind, Buck, I can’t do what you want if you won’t tell me.”

“This is punishment,” James says. “For talkin’, right? You said you’re in charge and I’m talkin’-”

“You know,” Steve says, “you work on the Hill and you link up your spreadsheets and you’re smart enough to figure it all out and yet _somehow_ …”

He slows down even more, twists his hand as he goes.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” James says, “oh fuck, I’m still talkin’?”

“There he is,” Steve says, and James laughs helplessly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Not helpin’ your case,” Steve says, but he says the words like he’s trying not to laugh, and James just opens his eyes and looks at him.

“Gonna be like this every time?” he says, because that doesn’t seem so hard to learn to live with.

“Nah,” Steve answers, and kisses him softly, lips gentle, piercing unyielding, fingers going loose so that he’s barely holding James’ cock at all. “Doesn’t even have to be this time if you don’t want.”

“Uhnn, fuck,” James murmurs, and Steve, when James looks up at him, is just watching him, eyes half closed behind his glasses, shirt hanging open to make a screen either side of them. 

“Tell me what you want, sweetheart,” Steve says, and James just stares up at Steve, painted with pictures and pierced by jewelry, his expression soft and his hair still perfect, “help me out, huh?”

“Kiss me,” James says. “I liked that, I like everything you’re doin’ to me, please-”

“I’m hearing ‘take charge,’” Steve says.

“Then why _ain’t_ you?” James answers, and something, _something,_ changes in Steve’s expression.

James doesn’t know what, exactly, it is, but he goes from flirt to predator in about a half second flat.

“One day I’ll show you what you get for runnin’ your mouth like that.”

 _“Yes please,”_ James answers, and Steve tuts, and shakes his head, but leans down over him again, gets his fingers nice and tight.

“How about you keep your goddamn hands on my goddamn thighs like I told you,” he says, and James does - but that means he has to let go of Steve’s cock.

“But what about y-”

“Strike one,” Steve says, and James puts his hands down on Steve’s thighs so fast they make a noise, jaw snapping shut. “Very good.”

Steve starts to move his hand then, _just_ not fast enough, and James opens his mouth to gasp and finds Steve’s tongue in it instead. 

“Mmmf,” he groans, and Steve just breaks the kiss and comes back for another one while he moves his hand. 

That’s his strategy, James soon realizes - little kisses that leave James with not enough, the leave him bereft every few seconds and hoping for more, while Steve moves his hand like they have the whole evening to do this.

They do, James supposes. They’ve got as long as they want.

“Hmmm,” Steve says, and it feels like encouragement - he never goes further than an inch or so away but James constantly feels like he’s stretching to reach Steve. 

From what he can see of Steve’s face, Steve’s smiling. 

Steve just keeps at it, jerking James off slowly, on his living room couch - Natalia was sitting here and now James’ bare ass is on the cushions, lying completely exposed on one of the only pieces of furniture Steve has. He can feel Steve’s rings.

Maybe Steve will hop on a stool and bend him over the kitchen counter if he asks really nicely.

“Steve,” he rasps as Steve pulls away _yet again,_ and Steve’s brow furrows just a little even though his mouth is still smiling.

“What, James?” he says. “What is it?”

“Can I just…” he lifts a hand instinctively, and Steve glances down. “I won’t,” he says. “Just your skin, huh?”

“Mhm, sure,” Steve says, and James lifts his hands and puts them on Steve, on his waist, avoiding his cock completely where it hangs out of his open jeans. 

He just wants skin under his hands, just wants to touch, and Steve tightens his fingers in response and leans right down and jerks James’ cock as fast as he can. He doesn’t kiss him either - James’ mouth falls open on a gasp and then he can’t get a breath in properly, can’t do anything except twist under Steve.

“You get something you want, I get something I want. Tell me when you’re gonna-”

James tries to say ‘I’m gonna,’ but he can’t form the word properly, so it comes out “Aigh,” and then a gasp, and Steve says,

“Ah-hah,” like he’s got his tongue in his teeth while he watches James, and then-

“Fuck, fuck,” James gasps, “Oh fuck, _fuck!”_ and he can hear Steve laughing, slow and satisfied. 

“There you are,” he says again. “Gol _ly_ , look at you.”

James tries to relax his fingers when he feels Steve’s hipbones under them, and he presses his head back into the couch cushions so he doesn’t headbutt Steve in the nose, but Steve doesn’t quit for way too long, keeps him going until he’s wincing with it, until he’s holding on to Steve so he doesn’t push him off. 

Only then does Steve stop, and James can’t get a breath before Steve’s kissing him.

He moans into Steve’s mouth, aware of how hard he’s breathing. His hair’s coming out of its bun at the back of his neck.

“Hmm,” Steve says when he finally pulls away enough to let James breathe.

James feels like somebody’s shaken him very hard, like he’s been let out in the middle of space and been allowed to crash back down to earth - he feels pretty much ecstatic, and exhausted, and he pries his fingers off Steve’s waist and looks down.

“Are you okay?” he says, and Steve snorts.

“I’m fine,” he says. “How-”

“No, but,” James answers. “God, I could- bruises-”

“So?” Steve laughs. “Not like I mind, only person’s gonna see ‘em is you.”

“Ugh,” James says, and lets his head flop back again. “What about you?”

“I’m good,” Steve says. “How are you?”

James nods, out of breath, and reaches up to get his uncooperative hair out of his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says. “I- Yeah, I’m. I’m _great._ ”

Steve’s smile grows.

“Good,” he says.

“What about you?” James says again, and strokes the backs of his fingers up the inside of Steve’s thigh.

Steve looks down, too, and then looks back at James.

“Huh,” he says. “How ‘bout that.”

“Can I?” James says. “Short’a gettin’ you to sit on my chest and feed me it?”

“God,” Steve chuckles. “You’re not messin’ around, huh?”

And James does what he does next out of instinct, out of it feeling like the right thing to so. He cranes his neck and kisses Steve - carefully and slowly like they kissed outside. 

“I want you,” he says quietly when they part. “Not some cute pocket punk, not some random idea of this hipster coffee guy, I want you.”

Steve shakes his head, more in disbelief than disagreement. 

“How do you want this?” James asks, and Steve tugs at his labret piercing with his teeth. 

“Well I can’t hold me up any more,” he says, and so James tries to move sideways, towards the edge of the couch, so that Steve can lie down between him and the back of it.

There isn’t even nearly enough room, and so Steve basically ends up lying on his side, stacked up on James’ side, with his back up against the back of the couch. It’s good enough - James kisses him, gets an arm around his shoulders and kisses him, and he puts his other hand on Steve’s waist while they kiss, strokes it up and down for a minute or two, maybe angles his thumb inward to play with Steve’s nipple and the bar through it.

“Mmh,” Steve answers, clearly pleased.

Steve has one arm tucked up between them, and reaches out with the other to settle it on James’ chest, fingers fitting around the muscle of his pectoral like they were made to do so. 

“Okay?” he asks, and Steve nods, and then kisses him.

“Yep,” he says as they break apart, “I’m fine, I just couldn’t hold me up any more.”

“What a shame,” James says. “Guess I’ll just have to lie here with you on me. Is it really, really awful of me that I want to make you come so hard your glasses go wonky?”

Steve laughs, then lets go of James to cover his mouth with his hand for a second.

“We’ll have to see how good you are,” he says, and his smile slips for a second.

“Only if that’s what you want,” James tells him, because Steve is wedged between the back of the couch and _him_ , and that might not be optimal for someone who doesn’t want to to feel trapped due to a bad experience. “Can I touch you?”

“What, and stop flappin’ that mouth’a yours?” Steve answers, mouth pretty much against James’ jaw. “I wish you would.”

So James does. He wraps his fingers around Steve’s cock and starts jerking him off, and he doesn’t bother going slow, he’s not trying to draw it out. He just wants Steve to feel good.

“Ohn,” Steve says, and presses tips his head back into the back of the couch as his hips roll forward. 

It’s a little awkward of an angle but James isn’t complaining. Steve isn’t saying much of anything except that his pretty mouth has fallen open and his hand moves on James’ chest like he’s not sure where to put it. One of his rings catches on James’ nipple but James doesn’t care.

“Like that?” he asks, and Steve nods, eyes squeezed shut.

“Yeah,” he says, and his voice is still steady - James doesn’t know how he’s doing it. 

Like this, one half of Steve’s shirt is fallen open and the other has fallen closed, and he’s so slender that the shirt was big on him anyway - he’s basically still almost fully dressed, it’s just that James has Steve’s cock in his hand, and it’s hot and heavy in his hand where Steve’s fingers have barely warmed at all.

“Talk to me,” James says. “Lemme know I’m doin’ good, okay?”

“You are,” Steve says, and now he does sound a little strained. “Oh, you really are, you-”

He brings his head forward and puts it down on James’ chest instead and groans, fingers biting into James’ pectoral. 

“Fuck, that’s good,” Steve says, and then he’s sort of shaking his head, maybe, or pushing his forehead against James. “God, it’s been…”

James doesn’t push him for that one - he’s not sure Steve would particularly want to finish the thought.

“You feel so good, Buck,” and James smiles - the childhood nickname, coupled with what they’re doing.

“You’re the only one who calls me that, y’know,” he says, “I dunno what possessed me.”

“I can-” Steve says, and his breath hitches “-stop?”

“No, I like it,” James tells him. “I don’t want you to stop.”

“Ugh you and me-” he says, and James thinks maybe it was going to be ‘you and me both,’ but he feels Steve’s mouth open wide, and then Steve’s crushing his face - and glasses - against James’ chest, and his dick pulses hot in James’ hand.

Steve makes a sound that’s almost not a sound at all, a soft, gentle little,

“Uh,” and then he goes completely lax over James, like hitting an off switch, like coming was such a relief he’s passed out.

James doesn’t have time to worry if he really did pass out, because he moves his hand a second later and sweeps it down to grab James’ wrist.

“Stop,” he whispers, and James lets go as Steve shakes his head. _“Oh…”_

James smiles as Steve comes down, just lies where he is and lets Steve lie on top of him. He kisses the top of Steve’s head and then wonders if Steve’s the kind of guy who likes the top of his head kissed, but he doesn’t object. He just lies on top of James, chest heaving, for the few minutes it takes him to get his breath back.

Then he clears his throat, and then he clears his throat again, and then he starts pushing up off James.

“I do have one request,” he says, and James nods. 

“Sure,” he says.

“As nice as it is,” Steve says, “I think your cologne’s gonna set off my asthma.”

James opens his mouth but manages to stop himself saying _‘you have asthma?’_ like an idiot.

“Sure,” he says. “You got hot water? I’ll go wash it off right now.”

Steve sits up, kind of on James’ legs just because of how they’re tangled on the couch, but he extricates himself soon enough.

“Yeah,” he says. “You know where the bathroom is, just put the condom in the trashcan in there.”

“You have a trashcan in your bathroom?” James asks as he stands, and Steve laughs.

“You don’t have many female friends, huh?” he says.

James goes through a couple things in his head and then figures Steve must mean periods. Sanitary stuff is disposable, right?

“Oh,” he says, “okay.”

And Steve settles back into the couch as James walks away from him, narrow chest still heaving inside his shirt, nipple piercings catching the light, cock soft and starkly pale against the black denim covering his thigh. His glasses are wonky after all.

~

When James is done in the bathroom, he has to come out naked, which he totally didn’t anticipate. Steve, at least, isn’t waiting for him.

“I’m averting my eyes,” he says from the kitchen area, yawning as he does, and James laughs.

“Pretty sure you’ve seen it all already,” he says, and Steve cocks his head but doesn’t turn around.

“I can think of at least one thing I haven’t had my fingers in yet,” he says, and James finds his pants and his underwear in a heap under the coffee table as he feels himself blush.

“God, you just _say_ this stuff,” James says. “You just come right out and _say_ it.”

“Life’s too short,” Steve says, “are you decent?”

James hauls his trousers and his underwear up over his ass.

“Unfortunately,” he says, and Steve sighs heavily but comes across with a couple of mugs in his hands.

“I only have non-dairy,” he says, and James shakes his head.

“That’s fine,” he says as Steve sits down, and takes the coffee with a nod of thanks before he puts it down so he can get back into his shirt.

Steve sighs happily as he sinks into the old armchair, holding his mug in both hands, and James does the same in the couch cushions once he’s a fair approximation of ‘dressed’ again. Steve sits with his eyes closed and a small smile on his face. 

“So a latex allergy,” he says, and Steve laughs softly.

“Mhm,” he says, eyes opening. “Ask me how I found out.”

James winces.

“Please tell me it was when you opened the café?” he says.

“It was not,” Steve answers, and then laughs when James pulls a face.

“I take it things were bad there for a while?”

“Boy, I thought I was so smart,” Steve answers. “No more Kleenex extra large, no more long showers. Thankfully, first time I tried jerking off with a condom, I was living with a nurse.”

“Ouch,” James answers.

“Ouch doesn’t cover it,” Steve says. “Ever tried to wear a shirt over sunburn?” 

James shuts his eyes, passes his hand over them, and groans.

“Jesus.”

“Yep.”

And James laughs a little unsteadily, trying not to picture a sunburned dick.

“So is that what it looks like?” he says. “Like sunburn?”

“Actually,” Steve says, “it looks a lot like what happens with the sun allergy. Lots of little tiny water blisters that look like a rash and itch like fuckin’ crazy.”

“God, ouch!” James says. “How- Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Steve laughs. “Thought the sun allergy _was_ latex for a while, actually. It didn’t kick in until I was college age or so, and I just assumed I’d worn the wrong type of gloves for like… _years_.”

James feels his eyebrows rise.

“Yeah,” Steve nods. “I’m not a sun-person. Or, I wasn’t. It’s always so bright, I used to hate it. I like it now but it doesn’t matter, I guess, I’m never gonna be someone who can nap in a sunbeam. I burned so easily even before the allergy manifested I used to just sit indoors anyway but,” he shrugs. “One day Peg and I were talkin’ about it and she…”

He shakes his head, gaze going distant. Then he laughs.

“She said ‘anyone would think you’re allergic to the sun,’ and I sorta laughed…and then I thought about it…and then I looked it up and, lo and behold. Took me forever to get a diagnosis confirmed but,” he shrugs. “Same old, same old. You would _think_ , given how much is wrong with me, doctors might believe me when I say there’s a new problem but…” 

He shakes his head again, the little gem set against his nose catching the light as he does. 

“I would’ve thought you’d be allergic to piercings,” James says, and Steve laughs.

“Yeah well, I am pretty much. Plugs are acrylic, and then I can have gold or silver, or surgical steel. Nickel’ll bring me up in hives and turn my piercings into sores but these ones-” he gestures to his face “-are gold, my friend Sam bought ‘em for me for my birthday a couple years ago. He’s one you haven’t met yet.”

“Yeah,” James says. “The one who doesn’t get leave until June.”

Steve smiles.

“July,” he says.

James snaps his fingers.

“Nuts,” he says, and Steve chuckles.

“Nice job, though,” he says. “I mentioned him, what, once?”

“Come on, I was only two letters out,” James says, and Steve’s face crumples up in a laugh. 

“Yeah, sure,” he says.

“And what about those ones?” James asks, gestures in the general not-your-face area of Steve’s chest.

“Mine all mine,” Steve says. “Bought ‘em in college. First ones I did, I don’t change ‘em often.”

James feels his eyebrows rise, and Steve lifts one hand and draws his shirt open just enough to show James one nipple and the bright silver balls nestled either side.

“What, you like them?” he says.

James wets his lips.

“Yeah, I think it suits you,” he manages.

Steve laughs. 

“Alright, hotshot,” he says through a groan as he gets onto his feet, “what do you want for dinner? I’m not cookin’ now, not after that.”

“I could cook,” James says. “What do you have?”

“Oh, a bunch of ready made allergen shit and a couple of things I meal-prepped but I’m pretty close to sayin’ screw it. You want me to UberEats some stuff from the restaurant?”

And James thinks about this. James asked Steve out, James wanted to know if Steve would go on dates with him, James has come up and intruded on Steve’s evening so, while UberEats is a good idea, he doesn’t want Steve - with his gifted jewelry and his inherited café and his open-seven-days-a-week work-ethic - to pay for it. Especially not after he waived half a day’s worth of coffee and pastries for James today already.

“I’ll get it,” he says, as casually as he can. “Tell me your order and then I’ve got it forever.”

Steve seems to think this is a good idea, and he gives James his order without too much protesting. James decides, at the last second, to get exactly the same thing.

“If I’m gonna be kissin’ you, I better get used to your stuff,” he says. “Right?” 

And Steve looks somewhere between worried and grateful, but James just figures that’s what Steve looks like when people try and do him favors.

“You can get the next one,” James says.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Steve answers. “I’m gonna text Nat.”

And James puts the order through - he has to close his notes app to do it, but he brings it up after he’s done - he’s still got time.

***

They go down to the shop to wait for the food to arrive. Steve lifts one of the big blinds in front of the plate glass window, and they sit in the shade of the other one while golden light spills into the café.

The food doesn’t take long, and they eat it together under that one light, at James’ regular table, the little fake plant between them.

They talk for hours, mostly about James’ time in Russia, some about Steve’s allergies, Steve’s ailments. Still, it’s like pulling teeth, Steve doesn’t want to give him much.

“I get it,” James tells him, covering Steve’s hand with his own on the table top. “I can wait.”

The burger is, predictably, atrocious, but Steve tells James where his condiments live, and James comes back with ketchup and mustard and mayo that all proudly proclaim themselves to be wheat, gluten and lactose free. 

They taste it, too.

But the thing is, Steve, chowing down enthusiastically on his burger with a smile on his face, is enough to make it bearable. James will go home and maybe make himself a grilled cheese before dinner tomorrow, or something. He’ll show up on his break and ask Steve to make him a hot chocolate with full fat milk. He’ll carry a toothbrush with him wherever he goes, it doesn’t matter. There’s something else that matters more. 

“Hey,” James says as the thought occurs to him.

“Mm?” Steve asks, and James holds up his phone. 

“Wanna tell me which stablizers and colorants you can’t have?”

Steve tells him E421 Mannitol, and Red Dye 40, and so James puts it in his notes app, and tries not to feel all fluttery on the inside that he knows something Nat doesn’t.

They talk for a long time.

They talk about Brooklyn and Moscow, about all the things James was going to bring for Steve and didn’t know if he could have, about how long Steve’s been thinking about wearing his Good Jewelry to impress James. 

They talk about painting and writing, about running a coffee shop and managing an Ambassador.

They talk for so long, in fact, that, by the time they think to check how late it is, it’s almost eleven.

“Shit,” James mutters. “Uh, wow.” Then he laughs. “I really oughta get going,” but Steve puts out a hand.

“Really?” he says. “Because I’ve got a bed upstairs. You could just stay here with me.”

James watches him for a moment, just to be sure he’s not asking out of obligation.

“If you don’t mind,” he says. “I don’t want to impose, I don’t exactly have far to go.”

“If you want to stay,” Steve says, “the offer’s open.”

James checks his phone for the time again, and then looks at Steve. The answer’s obvious.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d love to.”

~

Steve’s bed is small, but it’s not too small to fit them both in, right up against each other. They’re in their boxer shorts because Steve didn’t take his off, and so neither did James.

Steve checks his locks and security systems, makes sure his alarms are set, and then comes into the bedroom and looks at James.

“You good?” he says, one hand on the light switch, and James nods.

“Yep,” he says, and so Steve turns out the light and gets into bed beside him.

They shuffle around a little, and then Steve fumbles with his phone for a minute and says,

“Hey Siri,” and the phone pings at him in response. “Turning in, everything fine. James is spending the night,” he says, and then he presses a few more buttons and puts the phone face-down on the nightstand, plunging the room into basically darkness.

There’s enough light that James can see the patterned ghostly-white of Steve’s body, but he can’t make much out otherwise. Steve takes his glasses and hearing aid off next and stretches out to put them on the nightstand. He’s long and slender, and James puts a hand out while Steve’s got his arm up, and just strokes his palm from Steve’s underarm to his thigh. Steve hums softly and turns towards him as he snuggles down. It’s not cold, but Steve’s fingers are little points of ice against James’ flank. 

“Do you always speech to text?” James asks.

“Yeah,” Steve answers, moving around to get comfortable on that side of the bed. “Pretty much. One of the places the screen is dead is right over the ‘K-L-N-M’ part so it’s way easier. Plus I don’t have to squint.”

James chuckles.

“What happened to it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Nat dropped it,” Steve says.

“Oh damn,” James answers, but Steve waves him off.

“It was her phone at the time, it’s not like she was throwin’ mine around.”

And James becomes aware that he’s staring at Steve in surprise, so he looks away quickly, hoping Steve didn’t see. He mustn’t have, because he doesn’t make any comments about it. Actually, he probably can’t see without his glasses.

Steve’s phone is old and broken because it’s second-hand. 

“Listen, I’m an octopus,” Steve says, shifting down the bed so they’re almost face to face. “I will be all over you while you sleep-”

“That’s not a deterrent,” James says. “You understand that right? You get how that’s what I want?”

Steve smiles a little.

“Just checking,” he says. “I’m up at five to open up. You want waking?”

And James sighs against Steve’s collar bone, presses a kiss to his throat.

“Yeah, if I gotta, I gotta,” he says, and Steve goes still with a heavy sigh.

“Hmm, this is nice,” he says, and James strokes his hand down Steve’s spine - he feels every bump of every vertebra. 

“Mmm,” he answers. “Been a while since I had somebody to hold.”

“Tell me about it,” Steve says, but his voice is slow and soft.

“Hey Steve?”

“Mmm?”

“What happens after strike three?” 

There is a long silence, during which James can hear the sea and the few cars that travel by at this hour, maybe music from somewhere. 

“I’ll figure it out later,” Steve answers, his words a mumbled blur. 

James smiles in the darkness, and settles down to sleep.

***

James is expecting an alarm.

At five the following morning, there is an earthquake, and he makes a noise that he feels is pretty appropriate to there being an earthquake at five in the morning, and then Steve is laughing at him.

_Laughing._

And, all right, fine, perhaps laughing isn’t the right word, maybe Steve is just chuckling at him, but it’s five in the morning and the, okay, the-

“What?” James says. “ ‘S’appening?”

Is the earthquake localized to his _head_?

“Sorry,” Steve says. “I’m sorry baby,” and then the earthquake stops and James’ head feels like it’s been put into a paint shaker.

“Wha’the fuck wassat?” he manages, scrubbing his hand over his face as he lifts his head

“Morning,” Steve says after a short pause, and James squints at him in the gloom.

He’s just adjusting his hearing aid.

“What the fuck was that?” James asks again, and Steve glances at him as he goes for his glasses.

“IfI’m lyin’ on my good ear,” Steve answers, “I miss my alarm - vibration pad means I’m awake on time. Come on, up and at ‘em.”

“No,” James says. “Down and away from ‘em.”

Steve snorts, and then yawns.

“Alright well,” he says, “it’s up to you how long you sleep but I gotta get up and shower, and then I’m goin’ downstairs, so if you want early breakfast…”

“Hmm?” James says, pushing up onto his elbows. “Early breakfast?”

“Uh, yeah,” Steve answers, “I’m not allergic to bacon and eggs?”

“Oh I’m up,” James says, and wraps his arm around Steve’s waist. “I’m up, I’m at ‘em.”

“Cool it a little,” Steve laughs. “I said I gotta shower, _then_ you get breakfast.”

James presses his face to Steve’s back.

“Mm, and what if I wanna shower with you?”

Steve says, 

“Ha, well, you can go back to sleep and keep dreamin’ ‘cause it ain’t big enough for two. Leggo’a me.”

“Mmmno,” James answers, and Steve laughs, reaches back to push him off. “Noooo.”

“Ge-e-et.” Steve says, and starts to inch himself forward with James’ arms around his waist. “O-o-off. Me-e-e-e.”

Then he stops, and sighs heavily.

“My plan is to hold on until you pull really hard and then see if you can catapult yourself through the drywall,” James tells him, and Steve laughs, pats James’ wrist with his hand.

“Come on, lemme up,” he says, and James groans but does as he’s asked.

Steve goes down to the end of the bed and grabs a couple of towels. He throws one at James.

“Hopefully you’re not too put out by my lack of a full working gym,” he says, and James tries not to wince - Steve barely has three rooms, and the guesthouse James is living in has a room dedicated to gym equipment. 

“How about a pool,” he says instead. “You got one of those?”

“Oh sure,” Steve says. “It’s in the basement. If you say ‘abracadabra’ the voice-activated butler-AI turns on the bubbles.”

James snorts, and Steve throws a towel over his face. When James pulls it back down, Steve’s right there, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

“Take as long as you need,” he says, and then he presses a hand to his back as he straightens, and off he goes. 

James gets a much better look at him this morning - there’s the God and Adam in the middle of his chest, the Brooklyn over his knuckles, the stars on his thumbs, and a smudge behind his ear. There’s a small word on his middle finger on his right hand that James only saw because Steve isn’t wearing his rings yet, and then the rest is intricate interlocking patterns all over his shoulders and stretching down his arms. They’re more pauldrons than full sleeves, and James sees wings in a couple of places, sergeant’s stripes somewhere else, a white constellation on a black inked background. There’s one or two of the spires of St. Basil’s in Moscow, a compass, a ton of little pictures that must mean something to Steve but don’t mean anything to James besides the fact that they’re all beautiful. The Brooklyn bridge stretches out under Steve’s collarbone on his left hand side, reaching out toward his heart.

There’s a line that comes down Steve’s arm, stopping halfway, and James sees words on the inside of Steve’s left elbow. Name, blood type, various ailments, allergies. It’s good information to have, and he’s glad it’s written somewhere accessible. At least he knows now, if he ever needs to tell paramedics. And there’s something else too, black and winding, like vines. That’s just what James sees, of course. And, when Steve’s walking away from him, he sees that Steve has in fact bruised at his waist in little watercolor splotches of blue and purple. 

There’s an hourglass on the back of his right shoulder, lying on its side and there, between his shoulderblades, is the mark James saw accidentally before. It looks like another constellation - black points on pale skin this time - maybe the big dipper? But upside-down.

James looks it up on his phone. Big dipper. 

And then, because his brain is nagging him to do so, he puts in “Big dipper polaris.” What he gets is a lot of results all at once but, primarily, below the line of images that look like an upside-down big dipper, is the answer - _Find the North Star using the Big Dipper._

And then, _You can use the **Big Dipper** to find **Polaris,** which is also known as the North Star.You can use the **Big Dipper** to find **Polaris,** which is also known as the North Star._

Okay, James thinks. So it’s not only important enough for Steve to name his café after it, it’s important enough that he’s got it inked into his skin, too.

~

Steve doesn’t make James coffee. He cooks both of them breakfast instead, and then gives a plate to James, and they both head downstairs into Polaris so that Steve can start prepping to open. Once the espresso machine’s up and running, he gives James a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso to start his day, and salted caramel syrup because, apparently, he knows James exceptionally well by now. 

“You be back at lunch?” Steve asks, one hand pressed to the small of his back again, when James really can’t put off leaving any longer, and James buttons his jacket and nods as Steve unlocks the door. 

“Should be,” he says, leaning down for a kiss. “I’ll letcha know.”

“Mh,” Steve meets him halfway. “Okay.” He says. “Lemme know what you want, too, I’ll put it aside.”

And he lets James out of the café and closes the door behind him. James waits until he lifts the blind, just to watch Steve startle, and then _laugh_ , and then he waves and goes about his day. Home first, maybe he’ll be able to get a little time in at the guesthouse’s gym. He’s got to preemptively work off the hot chocolates somehow.

And he needs to text Natalia.


	3. Chapter 3

James knows they have to talk.

In the fall, James’ Dad has a bunch of stuff coming up in D.C., and James won’t be in the Hamptons for it. He will be six hours away. And he’s not a fool - he knows how Steve’s health is. Steve hasn’t needed an epi pen or an inhaler yet while James has been around him, but James is pretty sure it’s only a matter of time. 

James’ main problems are that he still doesn’t truly know how sick Steve really is. Steve’s still playing a lot of his ailments close to his chest and, while James is fairly confident that he won’t be killing Steve accidentally any time soon, he doesn’t know much in the way of keeping him alive. Okay, Steve can’t have dairy, but Steve’s taking like six different pills every day and needs a certain amount of calories because his body will not put the weight on, and painkillers he has an alarm that activates a vibration pad, plus a security system that activates the vibration pad but also flashes a strobe light if someone breaks into the café so he doesn’t confuse it with his alarm and get up and go downstairs when somebody might be in there trying to take his cash.

James knows about some of the things Steve likes, and some of the tattoos Steve has, and some of the ailments he lives with, but almost nothing about who Steve is. He knows how Steve got the café, he knows why Steve is such good friends with Natalia, and he knows why Steve ended up in the hamptons, but he doesn’t know anything about Steve’s life outside of Polaris.

Of course, outside of Polaris, Steve doesn’t have much life, but that worries James too. Besides which, since the summer’s well and truly started, Steve’s exhausted all the time.

“Maybe I could spend a couple’a weekends learning to make fancy coffee,” he says, but Steve dismisses it like he’s kidding.

James isn’t, but once Steve has dismissed it out of hand it’s hard to go back and address it again. 

“Y’know,” he says, “I can come back from D.C. at weekends.”

“What, every weekend?” Steve says, but James feels guilty for the fact that - while Steve clearly feels two journeys between the Hamptons and D.C. a week would be too expensive - James can afford it.

“Sure,” James tells him, but Steve still doesn’t take it like a serious prospect.

James’ regular table isn’t his regular table any more because Steve gets so many people in that the place sounds like a New York Starbucks at the Friday lunch rush - all metal on crockery and chatter and music. Instead, James has set up camp right next to the counter, so he can talk to Steve in the breaks between Steve serving people.

“When are you making enough to hire a dishwasher?” James asks, but Steve just laughs.

It’s a strange kind of plus side, James thinks - Steve is making so much that he’s able to set some aside, able to order a little more specifically without worrying too much if it doesn’t all get sold. But he’s still working from seven to seven, ever day of the week except Sunday, when he opens at eight and closes at five. 

They’re still going out every Friday night, too, just to catch up, but James can see it wearing on him.

“So,” Gabe says as Steve tucks himself in beside James, “how goes the fresh new relationship?”

“I’m not sure fresh new relationship is the right set of words,” Steve says, his voice a rasp because he didn’t get much to drink today and the weather’s been warm, so the shop has been full of customers to greet.

“I’m a handful,” James nods. “Right? A real handful?”

Steve laughs, has to clear his throat at the end of it.

“Oh sure, that’s more like it,” he says, and he turns his head for a kiss, which James is already moving in to give him. 

“Got him well trained already,” Tim says.

“How would you know about well trained?” Gabe says, and Tim just bobs his eyebrows.

He and Steve have been together a month, or thereabouts, but James has only spent a few days with Steve, one or two nights out of every week, during which almost nothing happens. 

Something he’s learned very quickly is that Steve is almost always bone tired come closing. James gets up early by choice, because he works out, but Steve has to be up early to make the most of his opening hours, and it would leave him drained and aching even without his ailments - he’s bone tired come opening, too.

“We’re thinkin’ about takin’ him to see my folks,” James says, and Steve rolls his eyes as the others start jeering. 

“Shaddup all’a’ya,” Steve answers. “Somebody change the subject.”

“Sam’s getting back in a month,” Natalia says. “He’s coming in on the second - just in time for your birthday!”

“Ugh,” Steve says, and hangs his head.

“Oh yeah!” James says - Steve’s birthday is the fourth of July! “What are we doing, cake, fireworks?”

“If you bring a respirator,” Steve answers - James realizes a little late that cake probably isn’t a great prospect.

“Awh, don’t be like that,” Clint says. “You’ve still got your big yellow one we got you for Christmas last year, don’t you?”

“You’ve really got a respirator?” James asks.

“I have a mask thing that they bought me as a gag gift,” Steve clarifies, “and as for fireworks, I don’t see or hear that great so…I mean, if you like ‘em, we’ll go but it doesn’t bother me either way.”

“We don’t have to,” James says.

“Listen, I might as well have my eyes closed if we do,” Steve says. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be happy you’re happy.”

“You’re both adorable,” Peggy says, absolutely deadpan, and Steve sticks his tongue out at her.

Natalia raises an eyebrow, but then seems to remember something, and pulls her phone out of her pocket to send a text. Once it’s sent, she puts her phone down, and there’s the hum of a message arriving at Steve’s phone.

He frowns, puts down his burger, and grabs his phone from his pocket, too.

James only catches a little of what it says, but he sees “MedicAlert plan” and “birthday.” He is not, however, nearly as subtle as he thinks he is, but he’s lucky in the fact that, when Steve notices him staring, he turns the phone to face James. 

NATASHA it says, and then, below some discussion about a new protein bar Steve’s thinking of putting on sale in Polaris, _That reminds me, I renewed your MedicAlert plan ‘cause it’s coming up your birthday._

“Thank you,” Steve says out loud, and Natasha looks surprised that Steve showed James. 

James is surprised too - he didn’t know Nat was paying the subscription, and he’s not sure the others are aware of it, either, so he doesn’t want to blurt it out. As it is, he gives Steve a little frown and a lift of his head by way of a question, and Steve presses his napkin to his mouth and shakes his head.

“Later,” he says. 

“So,” Tim needles, because Tim’s good at needling. “You nervous?”

“Huh?” Steve asks, halfway through a mouthful, and Tim points at James. “Mh.”

Steve chews - although not quickly, he commands enough presence that Tim’s probably going to wait for him. Tim appears to be the type. Gabe is much more like Steve - a big presence and a purposeful stare. James is going to have to ask how they met. 

“No,” Steve says eventually. “I’m not nervous. Either they’ll like me or they won’t.”

“They’ll love you,” James says, just as Peggy says,

“At least try and cooperate.”

“I cooperate!” Steve says indignantly, although James is pretty sure they’re just messing around. “I can’t help it if most peoples’ parents don’t like piercings and beanies.”

“Or nail polish,” Tim says, and Steve sort of throws his burger at his basket.

“Oh Jeepers Creepers, I forgot about that one,” he says, and covers his eyes with his hand.

“What?” James asks, halfway to laughing, and Steve waves a hand.

“Oh, somebody’s parents didn’t like him wearing nail polish,” Tim says. “Told me it was gay.”

James splutters a laugh.

“Yep,” Steve says with a chuckle. “Guy in college’s parents, would you fuckin’ believe it?”

James laughs.

“Are you serious?”

“Moh, yeah,” Steve says, because he’s taken another bite of his burger. 

“What’d you do?” James asks.

“What do you _think_ he did?” Gabe says. “He started wearing eyeliner.”

“Knock it off,” Steve says, but he’s smiling, and James’ laughter drowns him out anyway.

“Are you gonna wear eyeliner to meet James’ parents?” Clint says, and Steve huffs through his nose.

“No,” he says. “If I had a suit I’d wear that - I was thinkin’ of that blazer with the tee you like,” and here he points at Natalia again. “Maybe those pants.”

“The blue ones?” 

“The dark ones that aren’t black,” Steve answers. “I will assume they’re blue if you say so.”

“Yeah,” she says. “Hey, do your boy a favor and help him pick out his clothes when you go?”

“I’m nobody’s boy,” Steve says, “and James is learning a great deal about what to do with my clothes, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

James knows it’s a joke, knows he’s amongst friends. He also knows he’s gone bright red, too. And, if he didn’t, the jeers from everyone at the table while he tries to hide his grin would tell him so. It’s nice, he thinks, to be accepted into a friends group, to be part of something, For now, things are easy - they won’t be _as_ easy when James is in D.C., once things really get busy for his father. But it’s still not the end of the world - a six hour drive is also a two hour flight, and James can travel first class wherever he wants. And even if he has to drive it, he’s not going to be far from Steve. Half a day at most.

It’s one of those things he’s shelving for a definitely ‘later’ conversation, right up there next to ‘Steve’s health’ and ‘how James is going to have to change how he lives his life.

~

When they walk back to Steve’s flat, he holds Steve’s hand. It’s cold, but warms the longer James holds it, and James would like to kiss him now except he had a milkshake with his meal and he left his toothbrush at Steve’s.

“You sure you’re okay about meeting my parents some time soon?” James asks, meaning is he sure that he’s not too nervous about meeting James’ parents.

“Yeah,” Steve answers instead, “I’ve had a good month this month, closing for a half a day won’t hit me too hard if we do it while the summer crowd is in.”

And James is struck, in that moment, by the difference between them. It’s something he’s been thinking about a lot over the past month at various points. James has enough money that he doesn’t have to worry about anything. He’s got enough disposable income for several fancy coffees and pastries a day, and he lives on his parents’ land. 

Steve isn’t exactly living hand to mouth, but he’s not far off. Sure the summer’s really come in and he’s got a steady flow of customers instead of a trickle, but he has a second-hand phone, he has to weigh up closing for half a day even though he’s open every day of the week, he’s supplied by friends for the most part, his Dress-To-Impress clothes were given as gifts. 

“You’re quiet,” Steve says as he unlocks the outside door for the flat, and he goes up ahead of James because sometimes being squished together in a stairwell is fun and sometimes it isn’t.

“Just thinking about us,” he says. “Mainly about you.”

“Be still my heart,” Steve says, and James says a silent prayer as he rolls his eyes heavenward - _he’s kidding._

“So your MedicAlert subscription,” he says, and Steve lifts his head a little as though he’s surprised James knows about it.

“Oh yeah,” he says, putting his keys down on the kitchen counter. “Nat pays it every year for my birthday.”

James nods.

“Yeah, I gathered,” he says. “How come?”

“Uh,” Steve says, pulling off his shoes before he crosses the room. “Maybe you should be askin’ Nat about this.”

“Steve,” James says, and Steve stops and look at him. “I’m not gonna ask you details. Not if you don’t want me to have them. But. Can you not afford MedicAlert?”

Steve goes to his bedroom door and opens it to grab his slippers - his feet get too cold otherwise - and then closes his bedroom door again and puts them on.

“She’s paid it since my ex,” Steve says, without looking at him. 

James freezes, unsure what to say.

“Since he-”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “For a while after, I didn’t sleep in the flat. He went down for it - and some other stuff - almost immediately but I stayed on her couch for a week or two.” _Then_ he looks at James. “It’s obvious what he wanted to start with,” he says, “just from how she found him. But there’s no reason to think he would’ve let me go after.”

“You oughta keep a baseball bat in here,” but Steve laughs.

“If I’d had a baseball bat in here…” he says, but the rest goes unspoken, and James can extrapolate. 

Steve would have had to get to it first, and James is guessing Steve wouldn’t have won that particular race. James breathes deeply.

“But the point is, after that, she wanted to make sure I was always alright and…I mean, you can’t guarantee that, ever, can you? But, uh. She said that it would help her sleep at night knowing I was covered.”

“She’s like that,” James says.

“She is,” Steve says.

“Still think it’s a shame she didn’t kill him.”

“She gave it a good shot,” Steve answers, and some of the tension seems to leave him then. 

“What’d she do,” he says, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Take a chair to him?”

“I told you,” Steve says, and he nods at the flat-pack shelf standing in the corner of the room. “She picked up the heaviest thing she could find.”

James follows Steve’s gaze and searches for the answer. The same pictures, metal vase with stars on, figurine and CDs are sitting right there, with James little faux plant gift sitting next to one of the stacks. He looks at Steve. Steve is now busy folding his pashmina, and James points.

“What, the vase?” he says, and Steve makes his little _Tschuh_ noise again.

“Not a vase,” Steve answers. “But yes.”

James shakes his head. It looks like a vase to him, or maybe a fancy tea caddy or something, and Steve can evidently see his confusion.

He huffs a laugh, and crosses to the shelf, and stands in front of the star-covered vase. Then he smiles a little, and turns to look at James. 

“This would be my mother,” he says.

James feels the absolute dumbass expression he makes, but can do absolutely nothing about it. He’s shocked. He’s _dumbfounded._

“Natasha beat up your ex,” he says, “with your _mother_?”

“Saved my life one last time,” Steve says, brushing dust from the top of the jar, and he smiles at James, a small, tired little thing. “She was a nurse. Only reason I lived as long as I did was because of her.”

And then James remembers something else, as well.

“The nurse you lived with,” he says. “Your latex allergy!”

“Go brush your teeth,” Steve laughs. “I haven’t kissed you in hours and I’m starting to lose my mind about it.”

And James goes off to do so, with a little more knowledge under his belt. Maybe, he thinks, Steve’s mother is a big part of the Polaris thing.

~

They don’t manage much. It’s a Friday night after a long week of work for both of them, and Steve is already busy with scheduling his orders for tomorrow, with it being halfway through the month.

“Can’t believe how much difference this makes,” he murmurs as James comes over and starts to work his fingertips into Steve’s shoulders.

The muscles there are tight and stiff, but they ease under James’ hands little by little.

“Anything for you,” James says, and Steve laughs softly. “You work too hard.”

“I feel like I haven’t slept properly in months,” he says, and James presses a kiss to Steve’s temple. “God, your hands feels good.”

“I can do this all over you, y’know,” he says, but they don’t get to it. 

Steve is, as soon as he’s finished with his ordering schedule, in no fit state to wait for James to shower and prep, and James doesn’t really feel like it either. Instead, James blows him and then Steve jerks him off, because Steve’s been wheezing since the whatever tree down the road started producing pollen, and James isn’t risking an asthma attack just to get his jollies. 

After, when Steve’s lying on his stomach, and James is stroking his spine because he wants the contact and Steve is breathing a little more easily on his stomach than on his back, he finds himself tracing the patterns he can see. 

“What do they mean?” he says softly, and Steve already has his glasses on the nightstand, Steve’s already taken his hearing aid off.

“Hmm?” he says.

“What do your tattoos mean?” he says, just a little more loudly, and Steve sighs a little noise that sounds like contentment.

“Something for everyone,” he says. “Something for everyone who means something to me.”

The only ones he knows the meaning behind without any ambiguity - that is, the only ones Steve’s told him about - are “BROOKLYN” over his knuckles, and one that James barely ever even sees: Steve has a small tattoo beneath the ring he always wears on his right hand, the middle finger. It reads, _He_ because, surprisingly, apparently, he is a religious man. Or, rather, he’s an agnostic. He says it’s because the bible says to set the Lord before you and that, ‘ _because He is at my right hand, I will not be shaken,’_ and he told James that his family instilled it in him. These days, it’s not so much about ‘He’ as it is about the strength of remembering those family members, so he says, but it’s about representation, so it works.

James doesn’t know about the others.

He follows most of the patterns with his fingertips, but doesn’t touch the little dipper and Polaris. If Steve is going to tell him, Steve will do it on his own time. 

“Why your shoulders?” he says, and Steve hums a laugh.

“Oh, the poetic symbolism young me thought was cool,” he mumbles, halfway asleep already. “ ‘They’re my world so I carry them on my shoulders.’ ”

“Ah,” James says softly. 

“Only ever covered one,” Steve says. 

James doesn’t need to ask for whom. There’s only one person whose existence Steve would want to scrub from his record. 

James hopes that’s where that number will stay.

***

By midday on Sunday, James has been sitting where he’s sitting now for the past three hours. Steve’s only managed to speak to him once or twice, and James wonders if this is how his life is going to be - only speaking to his boyfriend in twenty second spurts during the summer, no days off, barely any time together in the evening.

It’s not a problem in the short term but, in the long term, it’s not sustainable. For either of them.

“Can I talk to you tonight?” James asks. 

Steve has just finished serving a mom and her daughter an iced-cinnamon half-fat latte and a Birthday Cake BB respectively _(’You’re pretty much the only place on the waterfront where I don’t feel guilty coming on my cheat day ha ha’)_ and another customer’s just walked in the door. Steve’s already lifted his hand in greeting, is already moving to the counter. 

“Sure,” Steve says, and flashes him a look. “Everything okay? Hi, what can I get for you?”

And James rubs his hand over his chest. Steve won’t hear an answer if he gives it, and so he doesn’t give one. 

But they really do need to talk. 

Steve makes himself a latte for lunch and snags one of the allergen danishes. He sets it down behind the counter, and James watches the latte go cold and the danish go uneaten, two little white pills next to them.

It’s not the first time.

~

“Give me the keys, sweetheart,” he says, at five-fifteen as Steve comes back from handing off the surplus to the shelter guy, and Steve looks at him.

“Huh?” he says. “Pardon?”

“Gimme the keys, sweetheart,” James answers, and holds both hands out like a clam so Steve knows he can throw ‘em.

“Oh,” he says, and throws them underhand towards James. 

He’s not fantastically accurate but he’s not far off, and James waves a hand as he apologizes, and goes to lock up. As he does, he’s met by a young woman in jogging gear.

“Oh,” she says, and laughs. “Excuse me.”

“Sorry, Ma’am, we’re closed,” James answers, and Steve says “what?” from the storeroom at the same time the woman by the door does. 

Two of the lights flick off.

“It’s past five, we’re just closing up the store for the day,” James says again.

She frowns at him.

 _“You’re_ closing up? Where’s the other guy?”

Other guy. If she knows there’s an ‘other guy’ then she’s been coming often enough to know the ‘other guy’ is also the ‘usual guy,’ and if she knows that then he’s kind of annoyed she doesn’t ask for Steve by name or title. Okay, Steve doesn’t wear a name badge, but he’s a barista, the owner, not just the ‘other guy.’ Maybe he’s being harsh.

“He’s closing up the store,” James answers instead, and tries not to make it sound like she ought to know that.

She should, because he’s just told her that, but he tries not to make it sound that way. But Steve chooses that moment to come _out_ of the storeroom.

“Oh, hey,” he says, presumably to the woman.

“Hi,” she says. “Can I-”

“I’m just explaining that we’re closed,” James says as he looks back at Steve, and he doesn’t mean to steamroller the woman, but he’s kind of glad he did. 

“Hold on,” Steve says to _James,_ wiping his hands on the corner of his apron, “what were you after?”

And James tries not to lock his jaw. He doesn’t look at the woman but he kind of wants to. Instead, he puts his energy into glaring at Steve. He can’t telepathically explain that Steve knows better, or that Steve’s pastry is still sitting on the counter, his latte half-finished, or that Steve’s been up since five and open since seven. 

“Just an iced latte?” she says, screwing up her face like a wince, as though she doesn’t want to impose.

Which is hilarious given that it’s fifteen minutes past closing and she wants an iced latte.

“Aw, sorry,” Steve answers, much to James’ surprise. “We stopped serving - machine’s shut down.”

“Oh, I,” she says, “I can just take a latte?”

Steve smiles a little tightly and puts his hands in his apron pockets. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “The espresso machine’s shut down.”

“Please? Can’t you turn it back on for a minute?” she says, and Steve shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” Steve repeats. “It’s shut down and cooled, and it’s also been cleaned, since we stopped serving fifteen minutes ago.”

James looks at her just as she points right at him.

“He said you were just closing up now.”

“He said we were just closing up the store,” Steve answers, “since we stopped serving fifteen minutes ago at five, which is when we stop serving on a Sunday. We open tomorrow at seven.”

She makes a weird little scoffing noise and turns around and jogs off, and James watches her go. He spends so long watching her go, in fact, that Steve manages to take the key out of his unresisting fingers and lock the door.

“Attitude,” James says, incredulous, and Steve just shrugs a shoulder.

“Hamptons,” he answers. “There’s a reason I painted my opening hours on the window.”

He pulls the blind down a moment later, and so James goes to pull the others down too.

“Wait, you mean you painted it? Like _you_ did?”

“Yeah.” Steve says. “Same time as the forty-five.”

“I’m impressed,” James tells him. “It’s lovely work.”

Steve just rolls his eyes and goes over to the counter.

“I thought you’d do it, y’know,” James tells him. “Make her a latte.”

Steve laughs.

“No,” he says. “But if I start out friendly then maybe they take it better. I mean, _she didn’t_ but…” he shakes his head. “I’m up at five every day of the week. She can show up twenty minutes earlier next time or she can do without.”

“Huh,” James says. 

“What, did you think I was gonna start the whole rig up again just for an iced latte?” Steve asks, and James wiggles his hand in a _so-so_ gesture.

“Thought you might,” he says.

Steve just looks at him.

“Oh sure, don’t I seem like the type?” and James laughs.

Now that he knows Steve, Steve seems like the type to do it for a friend, or a boyfriend. But James has experience of being just-another-customer so, really, he shoulda known better.

“You’re right,” James tells him. “How could I forget - you’re heartless and cruel.”

“Mmm,” Steve says, and crosses to him for a kiss. 

“Except to me,” James amends.

“Oh sure,” Steve says again, but his smile fades. “Listen, I’m sorry I haven’t had time for you today,” Steve says softly. “I know it sucks a lot. It’ll calm down in the fall some. People tend to come in for PSLs and not much else once the leaves turn.”

“That’s,” James says awkwardly, as Steve is starting to tuck chairs in and washing tables, “kind of- Hey, let me,” and Steve hands him the cloth as he goes to cash out at the register. “That’s kind of what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Oh?” Steve says. “The fall?”

“Yeah,” James answers. “It’s looking like my father’s gonna have a lot to do in D.C. this fall, and I have to be there with him.”

“Oh,” Steve says. “So, what, you’re just not gonna be here?”

He turns as he says it, and smiles, and James’ heart breaks a little.

“Oh,” Steve says, as soon as he catches James’ eye - James really means it, this isn’t a joke. “Right.” He doesn’t say anything for a little while, busying himself with rearranging silverware and moving little things around. “So…when do you have to leave?”

James narrows his eyes a little. 

“We don’t need to be down in D.C. five days a week until the end of August,” James tells him, and he _sees_ Steve relax a little, “but it’s…I mean, I was gonna say I could pay for your ticket down.”

“You don’t have to do that, buck,” Steve says. “Besides, who’d run the shop?”

And in the silence that follows _that_ , James can hear Steve’s wheels turning. 

“I’m just asking you to think about it,” James says. “You know? You’ve done really well this summer so far, just think about maybe pullin’ somebody in on weekends. You know?”

Steve purses his lips but doesn’t say anything.

“Anyway, we don’t need to decide anything now,” James continues, but he sees Steve bob his eyebrows to himself, like _oh sure_ and…James doesn’t like that. “Steve, come on, gimme a break.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. “I’ll think about it.”

But James is almost certain that he won’t.

~

“We’ve been dating a month now,” he says once Steve’s made sure the shop is closed for the night. 

“Wait, actually a month?” Steve says. “Are you trying to tell me I‘m missing our anniversary? Because I am, I didn’t even think about it-”

“No,” James laughs, and he lets Steve pass him so they can go upstairs to the flat., “no. I just…I was thinking, y’know. I want to be a little better at being part of your life.”

“Uh, I mean, you spend all your time here?” he says, and opens the door to the flat. 

“Yeah,” James says as he follows him in, “but…Look, I’m not saying I want you to let me cook and clean and organize your life for you.”

“But…?” Steve says.

“I just…I’ve never seen you take your meds except when you were sick. I only see you eat out and eat in the shop. You know? I want to be able to go grab you somethin’ or…fetch your pills if you don’t feel like getting up.”

Steve cocks his head.

“Uh,” he says. “I mean, okay.” He looks confused. “I…can show you the ones I take? They’re all in a pill box though, it’s not like you have to go through shit.”

James blinks at him for a moment, surprised by how easy that seems to have been.

“Oh!” he says. “Yeah, sure! I mean, if you’re okay with that.”

Steve nods as he walks past him.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s on the windowsill in the bathroom - that oblong white thing.”

“Oh,” James says, ‘cause yeah, he’s seen that thing.

Steve comes out of the bathroom with it and hands it over - it’s opaque white with braille on the top.

“I don’t need braille,” Steve says, “but I can read a little. Just, y’know. In case.”

“Right,” James says. 

He doesn’t do anything for a second, not sure if he should.

“Go on,” Steve says, “just flip a couple open.”

James does, carefully, so that he doesn’t fling medication across the room accidentally, and Steve just like leaves him to it, wandering over to the kitchen part of the apartment to grab something from the refrigerator. James suddenly feels like he’s holding a primed hand grenade but sure, fine, head over to the kitchen Steve.

What he sees is…a lot, actually. Mainly white pills, with one pink and one blue in there, though they’re all different shapes and sizes.

“You,” James says. “Take all of these?”

“Yeah,” Steve answers, putting his kettle on to boil. “Sometimes I take fewer but right now I got pain, pain, heart, anemia, blood pressure, one’s antihistamine and I’m also on a nerve blocker, too. That’s also technically for pain.”

James feels his heart clench.

“You take all of these every day?”

Steve looks at him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Don’t look so blue, I got glasses, insoles and a hearing aid too. I just got what I need, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” James says. “Okay. It keeps you goin’, right?”

“Right,” Steve says. 

James closes the little pill box carefully and sets it down on the coffee table.

“What are your seven-thirties?” he asks, and Steve nods at the box. 

“Blood pressure,” he says. 

“The pink ones?” James asks, and Steve laughs.

“Think about that question,” he says, and James thinks about. 

“Oh,” he says - Steve doesn’t see color. 

“They’re all gray, white or yellow to me,” he confirms. “But I’ll show you which one in…” He pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Like an hour and a half.”

James nods.

“Okay,” he says. 

Maybe one day he’ll know every pill by sight. 

Steve comes over to him, picks up the box, and shakes it.

“This is fine,” he says. “But it’s permanent.”

James nods.

“I know,” he says. 

“I know you’re _listening,”_ Steve answers. “But I need you to consider it. I’m not a hiker. I’m not a gym guy. You can’t make grilled cheese in my flat.”

“I know,” James says.

Steve’s mouth twists. 

“I need you to be sure,” he says.

James nods.

“Okay,” he says. 

Steve just looks at him for a long few seconds, and then shakes his head.

“Okay,” he says. “Alright.”

He doesn’t sound convinced, but James doesn’t have any way to convince him. 

Except for proving it by staying, he supposes. 

~

Steve is actually, to James’ surprise, very happy to take an early night.

“If you want,” he says, as though James doesn’t spend every second around Steve waiting for the next opportunity to take Steve’s clothes off.

“If I want?” he says. “How about tell me where you want me.”

James gets on his back on the bed and Steve stands at the end of it, holding James’ ankles in his hands while he goes at it. When his back hurts to much to stand, he goes and sits at the head of the bed, against the wall, and James gets over his lap. He even lets James play with his nipple piercings.

But the thing is, he acts like he thinks their having to move to the head of the bed is an imposition. Regardless of what James says. James is starting to worry Steve can’t see the wood for the trees.

***

“Just think,” James says, “we could stop in Baltimore on the way to D.C., maybe go on a day cruise.”

“No problem,” Steve says, to the guy who’s just tipped him for the latte. “Yeah, we’ll see. Let me know first, I gotta take tablets for seasickness.”

“Yeah,” James nods, and frowns. 

Steve’s birthday is in a couple of weeks, maybe James can convince him to take a day off.

“If you taught me to do this, I could help,” James says, and Steve frowns.

“I got it, Buck,” he says, and James nods, and smiles, but then he texts Natalia. 

_Any idea how to get him to slow down a little?_

It doesn’t take long for her to reply.

_I assume you mean Steve. No. If you find out, add it to the group chat._

And he sighs through his nose. 

_I’m up for your plan, btw. Clint’s in too._

And James feels something ease in his chest, something wind down where it was pulled so tight he thought it’d snap.

_Fantastic. We’ll break it to him Friday. Yeah?_

Natalia sends him back an ‘ok’ symbol, and James resolves to sit on his revelation until Friday. And then figure out how to talk Steve down when he finds out.

***

Steve closes a few minutes late on Friday, through nobody’s fault.

There’s a guy who spills his cappuccino on the way out, and Steve almost something trying to mop it up so James takes over after a minor fight.

“Why don’t you get the door?” James says, but Steve shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Sir, if you hold on a second, I’ll make you another.”

And then, because he’s Steve, he refuses payment.

James bites his tongue about it. If he starts an argument now, they’ll never get to the restaurant.

 _Just you and Clint?_ he sends, and gets back another ‘ok’ for an answer.

Steve locks up after the guy with the dropsies, and then sags against the counter as soon as he gets there.

“Man, what a week, huh?” he says, and James laughs.

“Yeah, no kidding,” he says. “You’ve been run off your feet.”

Steve shrugs a little. 

“Cost’a doin’ business,” he says. “Come on, you’re goin’ out dressed like that?”

James drops his mouth open in mock indignation.

“How dare you,” he says, “are _you_ goin’ out dressed like _that?”_

Steve laughs.

“Come on,” he says. “I want food that I didn’t have to cook, let’s get movin’.”

James follows him out of the café and up the stairs. 

~

“What do you think?” Steve asks.

He’s wearing his beanie, and his skinny jeans, and white button-down shirt, and he’s holding up two different sweaters for James to look at. 

“That one,” James says. “Goes with your eyes.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Steve answers with a wry grin, and he puts the other one back on the rail in his room. 

They are halfway to the restaurant when Steve says,

“God, I can’t wait for summer to be over,” and James laughs.

“Thought you liked the sun.”

Steve smiles in a way that kind of looks like a wince.

“Yeah, but I can’t sit out in it,” he says. “And it’ll be nice to get back to not having someone to serve every ten seconds.”

James scrapes his teeth over his lower lip.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “You’ve been workin’ really hard though. Maybe you can hire somebody else in, take a day or two off a week?” 

Steve laughs.

“Yeah, maybe,” he says. 

James lets go of his hand to put his arm around Steve’s shoulders. 

“I just want you to be able to relax sometimes,” James tells him. “You know? You haven’t had a day off since you got sick.”

“Oh I know,” Steve answers, and James pulls him close.

“We could just go somewhere, you know?” he says. “You take a day or two off, we could go anywhere - just drive or hop on a train or a plane or something-”

“Bucky,” Steve says, and he slows down.

“Just hear me out,” James tells him. “You could pick a place, okay? We just need to find someone who wants to work in-”

“I can’t afford to pay anyone, Bucky,” he says, stopping short. 

“What?” Bucky says.

“I can’t afford to pay anyone!” Steve insists. “I’m still making what I was making last year and everybody’s put their prices up-”

“Can’t you put yours up?” James asks.

He scrubs his hand over his face.

“I already did, Bucky,” he says. “Business isn’t as good this year, not since they opened another fucking Starbucks, even with all the foot traffic I’m getting. I can’t afford to pay anyone.”

“But, if-”

“You’re not listening,” Steve says, and James shakes his head.

“I am,” he says. “But-”

"Forget the restaurant,” Steve says. “Forget it.” And he turns around and starts to walk back.

“Steve,” James says, but Steve doesn’t slow down. “Steve, just hold on, will you?” he says. “Hear me out, all I’m saying is we could-”

“For God’s sake, Bucky!” Steve yells, rounding on him, and Bucky reels a little.

“What?” he says. “What the hell have I done now?” 

“Same thing you’ve done every single fucking time since you met me" Steve answers, fury in his eyes. “You assume everything. All the time, you just assume-”

“Yeah well you don’t _tell_ me anything!” Bucky answers. “What’ve I got to go on?” Steve turns around again and starts to walk. “Come on, Steve-”

Steve whips around to stare at him.

“Bucky, you don’t see a blue badge on my dash because I don’t have a car,” he says, turning back, “and I don’t have a car because I can’t afford one, and I can’t afford a _fucking car_ because I’m _eye deep in debt!_ My suppliers are all friends doing favors, my customers are all assholes spending a tiny fraction of the _obscene_ amounts they earned - or, more likely, inherited-” and here he waves a hand in Bucky’s direction “-and just, _just_ when I’m starting to think one of you might be different, you turn out to all be exactly the same.”

“Hey!” Bucky says, but Steve waves him off. 

“I dropped out of college to put my college fund into my mother’s cancer treatment - she worked all her goddamn life to give me it and I gave it back and it _still_ wasn’t enough to save her. I got a laundry-list of shit wrong with me, I got a café that was my best fucking option at the time and is a drain on my time and energy and bank account at least six months of the year, and _on top of that,_ I got drugs, I got prescription glasses, I got prescription hearing aids, I got prescription _shoes_ , I’m allergic to the goddamn _sun,_ Bucky! I can eat maybe six things, I can breathe maybe seventy-five percent of the time, I can’t get up the stairs to my apartment more than twice a fuckin’ day and I can’t even get warm in the summer! Someone puts the wrong label on a bottle of milk it could _kill_ me, and you’re sitting here tellin’ me I oughta get out more!? I oughta see the world!? With _what_ , Bucky, your good intentions!?”

Steve has gone very red in the face and is breathing very hard and Bucky can see his pulse fluttering in his throat but he knows that if he tells Steve to calm down Steve might actually go through the roof instead of just hitting it. 

And on top of all of that, under all the rest of it, Bucky hears the other thing Steve’s never said to him.

_My mother’s cancer treatment._

Every disagreement, every unspoken annoyance, every eyeroll and heaved sigh, Bucky knows he doesn’t have much of a chance but he’ll make the most of the one he’s got. 

“I’m bad at people like you,” Bucky says, and Steve’s eyes go wide in fury, his jaw juts out.

“You piece of-”

“Real people,” Bucky amends, and Steve pauses, waiting, chest heaving still. “I’m used to suits and ties and rich fundamentalists who thank the Lord for their Maserati on thanksgiving and vote to kill the poor on weekdays ‘fore they go golfin’ on the weekends, with every other rich asshole who does the same thing and I’m sorry.”

Steve shuts his mouth and breathes hard through his nose.

“You’re _sorry?”_ he says, words tight, mouth tight, jaw tight.

“Those people aren’t you, and I’m glad you’re not them, and I’m sorry. I have no idea how much pain you’re in or how anxious you are-”

“Don’t patronize me-” Steve spits.

“I’m being _honest_ with you,” Bucky says. “You’re ornery and stubborn and your temper runs hot all the time, and you’re sarcastic and defensive, and you get yourself into trouble and I love you - you’re so much of a person, you’re so much of a _real person_ -” it’s here Steve’s mouth drops open, like he couldn’t keep up with what Bucky was saying and only heard just now what he really wanted to say in the first place “-and my whole life has been filled with botox and white teeth and sterile little garden parties and galas and I just wasn’t somebody who looked at anybody and thought about how their life must be.”

“What?” Steve says, quiet and incredulous. “Wait-”

“I got no allergies, I got no ailments, so how hard could it be? That was me.”

“Bucky-”

“You’re right,” Bucky says. “That’s what I’m saying. You’re not easy, that’s true enough, you’re a goddamn handful.”

Steve takes a breath and a step back, looks down at his feet.

“But you take four pills every morning that you have to put on your glasses to find, another three during the day most days, and you sit down on your breaks ‘cause you can’t stay on your feet all day, and you gotta sit in the shade when you wanna sit in the sun, and drink somethin’ takes ten times longer to make than everybody else - I’m not sayin’ you get a free pass. If I’m a rich asshole, you’re a hipster asshole.”

Steve’s eyebrows go up and, much to James’ surprise, he looks away, and then he _nods._

“A’right,” he murmurs, acquiescing.

“But you’re right,” Bucky says. “I don’t take any of your stuff into account ‘cause I thought it didn’t have to affect me.”

The silence hangs very heavy between them for a long few seconds, and Bucky takes a small, shuffling step closer, holds out a hand to Steve and hooks his index finger around Steve’s pinky.

“Except it should,” he says. “We’re gonna have to change things and our lives are going to be very different for a while and we’re going to be at odds sometimes and…” Steve sniffs. “We’ll get through it. ’Cause that’s what a relationship is, right? That’s what happens when you love somebody. Me casa es su casa. Play together stay together. If you’re hurting then I’m hurting. Right?”

“Bucky-”

“You don’t gotta say it back, I get it,” Bucky says. “You’re not ready for that, then I can live with it. And if you feel it but you got trouble sayin’ it then we’ll find other ways. But that’s what happens when you love somebody, right?”

Steve, who’s looking at his shoes again, enough of his face visible that Bucky can see it’s twisted in pain, nods minutely. 

“Tryin’ to work this hard is killin you,” Bucky tells him. “Little by little if not all at once. Steve, you’re hurtin’. So I’m hurtin’ too. And I’m…I am _not good_ at it, not yet. I’ll learn, if you let me, it’s gonna take me a while, and you gotta- Steve, you _gotta_ cut me some slack sometimes, you gotta know I’m tryin’, I’ll do anything, but-”

“Bucky-”

“-Stevie, I swear to God, if you give me a chance I’ll do anything I can. Just let me do what I can.”

Steve takes a breath to say something and then sighs instead, shakes his head, jaw locked tight. 

“I’m hard work,” he says, bitter, through gritted teeth and, when he looks up, he looks miserable, shaking his head. 

“Not to me,” Bucky says.

And Steve mouth pinches, his lashes flutter down as he drops his gaze, but Bucky doesn’t let him go.

“I mean, okay, you’re an asshole,” Bucky says, and Steve laughs wetly, looks up slowly. “But you’re my asshole, right?”

Steve sniffs again, wrinkles his nose because his glasses have slipped a little. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, and so Bucky just makes a grab for him, careful of his back and his glasses and his hearing aid, and crushes him close as much as he dares. 

“Whatever we need to get through, we get through it together. You and me, Steve, _Любовь навеки в сердце моём_.”

Steve tucks his face down against Bucky’s collarbone. 

“Yeah, you and me both, pal,” he says, and Bucky strokes one warm palm down Steve’s back. “Just tell me what you need.”

~

“…which means my temping job is up,” Natalia says softly. “And we’re happy to work for coffee and bagels.”

“And danishes!” Clint says. 

“I will keep an eye on him to stop him eating them all,” Natasha says.

Steve has huge dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is pale, and he’s had no time for lunch for a good few days. Steve rubs his hand over his mouth and looks at Natalia. 

“I can’t,” he says. “You’re not covered by my insurance.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “How about a voluntary training position?”

Steve winces and rubs his hand over his mouth again.

“You could give Nat a refresher and then Nat could train me as an outside training body.”

Steve scrapes his teeth over his lower lip and stares at the wall for a long few seconds. 

“I can’t,” he says. “I really can’t.”

James shakes his head.

“Steve, put them on payroll.”

“Bucky-”

“Look at me,” James says, and Steve does. “Every franchise needs a partner. No?”

Steve takes another long few seconds to think about it, and then he looks at Nat. 

He looks at Clint.

He looks at James.

Then he closes his eyes and sighs.


	4. Chapter 4

It is very bright in the garden of the Barnes family guesthouse. Steve knows this because he’s indoors and Bucky is outdoors, in what looks like a big white popup gazebo, but Steve can’t see him at all because the thing has big white fabric walls, and the sunlight bouncing back off them is enough to make big negative gazebos in his field of vision. 

Every time Bucky comes out of the tent and sees him, he waves, and Steve, hands wrapped around his mug of coffee, lifts one to wave back, trying not to blush too hard. It really is way too bright to look at - he blinks the negative gazebos away and turns around to sit on the window sill instead, brushing the big plastic leaves of the giant plastic peace lily with the backs of his fingers.

He texts Natasha, just to make sure they’re alright.

_We’re fine, stop distracting us._

It doesn’t stop the antsy feeling he’s got, but it helps some. Nat knows what she’s doing, Clint is actually very good at not falling over everything and breaking everything he touches as long as he’s doing so for other people and not himself. They’ll be fine.

Bucky has been going back and forth from inside the house to outside the house for maybe half an hour, and Steve doesn’t know what’s in any of the boxes, but he’s been told in no uncertain terms to stay inside while Bucky works. 

“If you have a priest in there with a set of rings, I’m going to kill you,” Steve told him, and Bucky laughed and shook his head.

It doesn’t feel like it would be such a terrible idea though.

It’s after he’s spent perhaps another fifteen minutes mooching around the guesthouse that Bucky comes in and grins.

“Hey,” he says, a little out of breath, and Steve smiles back at him.

“Hi,” he says. “Can I come look?”

Bucky nods, enthusiastically.

“Yep,” he says. “Come on out.”

“Can I bring my coffee?” he says.

“Sure,” Bucky answers, and so Steve follows him outside, squinting until his lenses transition. 

Bucky leads him across the enormous lawn towards the big white gazebo, and Steve has literally no idea what he’s doing - he thinks maybe a deck of cards or a meal or something but instead, what he finds is, 

“Ta-daaa,” Bucky says.

The gazebo has a double sun lounger in it. It also has a parasol over the lounger, that sort of hangs from a ground-unit-mounted arm instead of there being a pole. There’s also a table of drinks with a little sign that proclaims each one a Virgin Something, and there’s a tray of gluten free cookies, Steve recognizes the brand. There are two allergen compliant danishes from the shop, as well as James’ laptop, which is playing Steve’s spotify playlist.

“What’s this?” Steve asks, and James puts his arm around Steve.

“I thought about it,” he says. “About grilled cheese and birthday cake and hiking and vacations.”

Steve looks up at him.

“I also thought about what you were saying about the ‘Bucks-fucks. About needing another pair of hands.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, because he knows exactly where Bucky’s going with this, but Bucky puts up a hand.

“No, listen,” he says. “Just sometimes. On weekends. And…I don’t know, if your café ever needed a partner-”

Steve feels his mouth drop open.

“Bucky-!”

“Just think about it,” he says. “Just think about it. You don’t have to make any decisions now, but it would just mean you wouldn’t have to hedge your bets about stock. You know? You could train up a second barista, maybe even a third. Come to see me in Washington sometimes, or else we could go somewhere for a weekend.”

Steve shakes his head.

“You could,” James says. “But you don’t have to. All I’m saying is, I know Polaris is your baby. I know. And I know I’m the son of an Ambassador and that I don’t have to worry about the roof over my head or whether the heating’ll stay on and that it’s easy for me to say shit but I _love_ you. And you’re always there for your friends, that’s why they do so much for you.”

“Bucky,” Steve says, but Bucky isn’t done. 

“No, listen,” he says. “I’m not gonna push you into anything. But didn’t you say, we’re together? Didn’t I tell you we’re both in this? If I can help, I wanna help. So just think about it. Okay?”

Steve sighs through his nose.

“I’ll think about it,” he says. 

James beams at him.

“Okay,” he says. “So this is for you. Take a seat, I’ll get you anything you want.”

And Steve laughs as the gazebo flap closes behind them.

“Why a gazebo?” he says, and James turns to look at him.

“Because after about three p.m., your skin’s just fine with one layer of fabric,” he says. “And you wish you could nap in a sunbeam.”

Steve just stares at him, just stares at him for a long few moments.

“You know, I…I care about you very much,” he says. 

“I should hope so,” James answers, and Steve laughs. “Come on, come sit down. Tell me what you want.”

And Steve does. He lets Bucky lead him to the sun lounger, and dutifully lies down on it.

“Hold on,” Bucky tells him, and then he arranges the parasol so it blocks the sun over Steve’s head and shoulders. “Okay. What can I get you?”

And Steve looks at the spread, and the laptop, and up at the parasol, and then he holds out a hand.

“I’m told naps are better with two,” he says, and Bucky smiles slowly, and takes Steve’s hand, and holds onto it while he walks around the other side of the sun lounger. 

Then he sits down, and then lies down, next to Steve.

“Hmm,” he says. “It’s warm, huh?”

Steve just nods, and settles back against the cushioning.

“Yeah,” he says.

Bucky grins, and Steve lifts his arm so Bucky can fit up against him.

“Sure you’re good?” he asks, and Steve takes his glasses off and drops them over the side of the lounger onto the grass.

“Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes, letting the warmth of the late afternoon sun suffuse his body. “Perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _Любовь навеки в сердце моём_ \- Love in my heart is forever


End file.
